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@wwithereds,            [the words haunt him. it rings in his ears, cuts through as if it were a wound that delve into his velvet bones. felize’s brows furrow, knitting together. palm pressing against the side of his face, fingers carding through red tresses until he pulls down a bundle of strands to express his frustration.]       margaret.       [her name rushes out harsh, it’s cold. he’s unable to contain the frustration—or was it anger? though it ruptures through his chest cavity. the frown that refused to form, finally settles fully.]       then why bother at all? if i have become who he had made me to be, then i have no reason but to continue on.       [though this may have simply been his stubbornness, unable to rip aside what she had said. stinging him in the depths of his undead heart.]         and i’m left here speaking to the ghost of my past wife. really, just who have we become?

@ivampsuckyerblood      then stop pretending you’re still that man.    [her words cut through the air,   crisp and cold,    like a blade slicing through fog.    she steps closer,    the air growing colder with each stride closer to the vampire skewed in his own emotion turmoil, her gaze sharp and unyielding]    all those deaths in spitalfields?    that was you.   not him. not his hand on yours,    not his voice in your ear.  you.     you say you’re afraid of becoming what he made you?     open your eyes,   felize. you’re already there.    and i refuse to haunt the shell of a man too scared to pull himself out of the grave he keeps digging.    [her jaw clenches with each word,   eyes burning like embers in the dark.   her fingers then hover just inches from his chest,    close enough that he can almost feel her touch—   cold,    electric,    and aching with everything she’s lost]    you’re afraid of becoming what he made you?    news flash,    felize—    you already are.    so what the hell are you going to do about it?

@wwithereds,          [margaret knew him too well, even in death. perhaps it was true when they said the dead follow you until the very end. felize’s lips part, but there was no excuse that he could conjure—nothing that he could tell her that would be a good enough reason.]       i wish you were the one alive.      [it was the first thing that leaves his mouth, golden eyes caught against dark orifices before he looked away. was it shame? no, perhaps it was guilt.]        if i find him, i’m afraid i will become what he has reduced me into. you are right, even now, i only see myself as the monster he created me to be. all those deaths in spitalfields were me, i am everything and nothing. at times, i cannot confidently—/ justly / say that i am the man you knew. 

@odetosin     oh,   well,   i suppose even the assured can be shaken sometimes.    [she steps inside,    tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear,   her eyes flitting around the room as if searching for something to anchor herself to.   the church was old,   yet comforting,   as she follows behind in tow.    she doesn’t enter the kitchen,   but rather stands in the doorway to keep her respective distance as the scent of fresh herbs and spices occupies her senses]   you’re right.     frustration doesn’t suit me.    but even the calmest seas have their storms,    don’t they?   besides,    what right have i to complain?    the world keeps turning,    doesn’t it?

@wwithereds,          such ailments will often be inevitable. even i, too, have succumb to such moments.      [he presses the door open further, letting the other slip into the church before they move off to the kitchen far in the back—off to the side.]      though why are you frustrated? you’ve always seemed so assured, i thought frustration would never reach you.

@odetosin      you’re too kind.   i suppose..   a bit of tea couldn’t hurt.   [she offers a small,    tight lipped smile,   eyes lowering to her hands as she smooths out a wrinkle of her skirt.   merely to avoid eye contact for now]    thank you,   really.   it is just one of those days,   i would suppose.

@wwithereds,          [felize takes note of it all. perhaps he seemed dense, but it was that he did not wish to press margaret on something that she didn’t feel she could speak to him about. lips press together, unable to bite back the slight frown that curls onto his complexion.]      neither would i wish for the same fate to befall you. i’ll prepare us tea,      [he muses, a suggestion which offers her enough space and away from him. if it meant that she could sort through her thoughts, felize would take a moment longer just for it to be accomplished.]

@ivampsuckyerblood       i..   am grateful,   felize.   [her voice trembles slightly,   as she draws a hand back.    hiding it in the folds of her gown,    although the gesture is subtle]    but there is no need to fret over me,    for i am not as fragile as you think.   [forcing a soft smile,   though it barely reaches her eyes.    her breath catches for a moment,   the free hand pressing against the side of her neck as if she was once again fixing her collar to protect the supple skin from the harsh brisk climate.   she feels the warmth that betrays her secret,   so she shifts slightly to attempt to conceal the faint crimson seeping through her fingers]    yes,   perhaps we should retire for the night..    it is chilly indeed,   and i would not want you to fall ill.    let us find some peace,     before the world catches up with us once again.

@wwithereds,             then i will patch your wounds, one by one.      [he replies, his hand slides to hers. felize’s palm envelops the witches, bringing it close so lips can press against each knuckle gently. a soft, timid affection to which they only share with each other. there is no one else to confide in with such despair that hangs between them like a string tempted to sever.]      shall we retire for the night then? it’s better to be safe, a cold would be horrid.

@wwithereds,        you speak of me as an ill—faded memory.       [his eyes finally rise, daring to challenge the fear that threatens to unfurl on him. felize’s heart remains sealed, his soul barren and margaret can only be left to stare at the collected remains of a man she once knew. golden eyes, no longer it’s still green, flickers to the mist that traces the outline of a figure he once knew.]       you cannot blame yourself for my misdeeds, the way i carried myself—the way i too, decided to immerse myself in the same violence you did.       [felize was a murderer, someone who could easily be considered worse than margaret’s crimes. her mind had been twisted by a curse, but felize used his hands to tear through flesh with his own volition. there is nothing more inhuman than him,]       however, we did not come about it the same. it was not your fault     .. but even if i were to die, i would not be at peace. i would only serve as a reminder of my failures. this is to pay for it.

@ivampsuckyerblood      [the words drift from her lips like mist,    and then—   nothing.   no breath,   no reply.     the air stills,   thick with unspoken things.    felize dares not meet her eyes,    yet he feels them—   like cold iron pressed just behind his ribs.   margaret does not move.   she simply is—   a silhouette in the dark,    flickering at the edges like a flame about to vanish,    but never does.     not with peace,    but with tension stretched too thin,    the kind that creaks like old wood before it breaks.    there is no wind,    no rustle of fabric,    no footsteps—    only the sound of time refusing to pass,    of hearts that no longer beat refusing to forget.     between them,    the space becomes a wound neither can suture.   and still, she lingers.    not as comfort. not as wrath.    but as a memory that won’t decay.]     because you were the last thing that was ever mine.    do you think i linger because i find comfort in you?   that i enjoy tethering my agony to your own?    [her gaze,    dark with centuries of mourning,   flicker with something that is not quite anger—    but far too alive to be peace]     i stay because i am all that remains of the thing you once loved.    because if i vanish,    so does she.     the curse twisted me—     but i remember who i was before the bloodshed..    the violence.    you were the only light i held,    and even then..   you were already fading

@wwithereds,            you were crafted by it. even now, i cannot discern whether or not it is you or the anger i speak to. my dear, margaret,       [the name is foreign against his tongue. felize cannot bring himself to look at her, just as she does. there is bile that cannot quite surface, but it lingers. it sticks against him, taunting to escape.]       he is gone, i do not know where he may have ran. he will continue to walk this earth, and i do not wish to seek for him.      [canines press into the plush of his bottom lip, it indents the pink. he does so enough to spill a bit of saccharine,]       i cannot understand the weight of your torment, but i see it—feel it. in the days that i walk by myself, even if i were to release myself from this prison; neither of us will be satisfied. we will continue to stay in this misery for as long as it forever will be. even in our deaths, but why linger with me. i bring you nothing but heart ache. it is clear to see.

“I was buried,            but I was not laid to rest.”    .      .      .      margaret payne,,      1733  ──   1756.      

She wears the remnants of her burial gown,     rotted lace and velvet worn thin by time,     blackened as if touched by fire or decay.     Her dress moves like smoke underwater,     trailing behind her with no sound,    no weight.    The scent of scorched herbs and damp stone clings to her—    a grave that was never properly sealed.
            
            Her hands,     translucent and cold,    sometimes leave faint prints on frost-covered glass.    At times,    you can hear the rustle of her dress in empty rooms,     or catch the sound of her breath—    a dry whisper,    close to your ear,    even when no one’s there.
            
            Margaret is not bound by walls or mercy.    She is the curse that never died,    the echo that refuses to fade.    A ghost made not of grief,    but of vengeance.