A girl in the middle ages of childhood walked softly into the
Graveyard as if not to disturb anyone from their sleep. She walked like she was
unsure of what she was doing there, but her heart was weak yet from the
un repairable damage she had been through and even though she was young she
understood the words of fate which were carved in black on the inside of her
left arm. Her hair was dark ink and her pale skin shimmered slightly in the
moon that illuminated the world around her. She had been through a lot already;
strange happenings, her father who had abandoned her and she was left with her
mother who she had loved so fiercely never undermining that bond between them
that had felt like honey warmth and protection. She could never, however shake
that feeling of mystery towards her mother, like there was something else she
needed to know, but now she would never know. Because, her mother was dead.
The little girl ambled on and focused on her red buckled shoes
which seemed to rattle every time she took a step, her face lifted up and her
piercing green eyes with flecks of grey or was it silver that glowed in the
night. Suddenly she stopped. This
was the place. She knelt down into the dirt and kissed the top of
the grave gently. “Mother...” she whispered then choked on the last letter and
erupted into a stream of tears that reflected soul and imperfect love. However
there was something wrong with her as well as grief, her tears were stained
dark against her bloodless face. And as soon as her tears hit the ground, a
black rose’s appeared that reflected lethal beauty.
“What’s happening to me mother!?” she cried in sorrow.
Images flashed into her mind that kept coming no matter how hard she tried to
stop them from coming; how the blade cut through her mother’s skin. “Stop!” she
screamed awakening the dead, and her voice echoed in the dust. Shaking
violently she stood up, wiping the tears away, but failing to remove the soot
like colour that was trailed from her eyes to her jaw.
Then she ran into the night, running from the monster. The
only problem was; the monster was herself.
By Nadia Newman
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| From here |
