Prologue

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

From here