The Works

Red?

Heart hammering. Breath burning. Feet pounding into the soft earth, dirt creeping between her toes with sticks and stones slicing into her smooth and sensitive skin. Branches pull and grab at her white flesh and tear into her velour cape. The smell of baked goods haunts her senses, trails of the scent swirling and curling around her. Flashes of greens and browns pass by without a second glance, flecks of bright fauna dot the images in her eyes. Her lungs are ready to rip out of her chest, but she must keep moving. She needs to complete her task.

What task? Where am I going?

A smear of grey and white to her left. Then to her right, behind her, in front. She slows to a walk. Her legs are screaming at her, and a metallic taste tinges every inhale. The earth creaks under her weight. She frowns, and she walks on polished pine floors that stretch in front of her. Even the scratches from moving furniture, stains from spillages and dents from clumsiness. Branches break somewhere in the brush. Instinctively, she speeds up, an iron focus on the path ahead. The floorboards vanish, replaced by the damp, woodland soil. A roaring crackle lures her ahead, her brows furrowing and ears pricking as she nears the sound.

Am I alone?

Heat wraps around her, breaking the chill in her bones and the familiar popping and snapping of burning wood diverts her, thick smoke obscuring her vision. A fireplace rages next to the tattered rocking chair, balls of yarn draped across the handmade blanket, sheltered by the oak tree with the silver birches swaying gently in the background. Her feet roll from heel to toe, slowly, silently. She reaches out for the blanket, and it's real. Still slightly rough to the touch, but also soft and comforting. Patches cover the tears from the years of use, pops of colour against the pale yellow. It's never been a pretty blanket, but it's a piece of home. She faces the heat. It's the same stone fireplace, built from burnt-orange bricks, a simple arch creating the dome for the flames to crawl up. Snow globes line the oak mantel piece, places Red hasn't visited but hopes to one day, and although untouched, the snow twists and turns under the glass. Flames lick at the brick but never quite escape, just charring the clay. The moment she moves to touch it, everything vanishes and she's trapped by the icy air. Her breath swirls in front of her, and she knows she needs to keep moving. She finds the path, and with every fibre of her body protesting, she walks. The wicker basket swings on her forearm, only a tea towel protecting the home-baked food underneath. The handle creates an incessant itch, she must scratch it. But there's pain. And something warm trickling down her arm. A quick glance down, and she sees not her hand but a paw, doused in blood — not her own — but still thick and wet. She shakes her head.

Nothing.

Have I killed?

A desperate thirst hits her; every drop of moisture has evaporated from her mouth. She follows the soft sound of the stream, the cold water bubbling and rippling downhill, cutting through the centre of the forest. She kneels, cupping her hands in the ice water and splashing some on her face. She washes her hands, her feet, scrubbing away the dirt.

I must look presentable for Granny.

She collects water in her hands, closing her eyes as the cold and refreshing liquid slips down her throat. She goes to repeat the action, plunging her hands under the water. She stops. The water spills over her pale skin, and ever so slowly, turns from crystal clear to a faint pink to a light orange to vermillion...and thickens with blood. Red scrambles away, and watches as the stream tumbles with blood over the rocks, spreading through the soil. She stands and she runs. She runs until every fibre in her body is on fire, straining to continue, but her movement is so constant she's numb. She doesn't know why.

Just keep moving.

Before she knows it, her legs are pushing her closer and closer to the end of her journey. The familiar flash of grey appears, circling. She stumbles to a stop. Her eyes are wide, lungs heaving. It's fangs are bared, dripping with hunger and ferocity. It snarls, baring it's glistening, pointed canines and a low grumble emits from the pit of it's empty stomach, shaking the ground they stand on. Its hair bristles, a cascade of cold greys and whites. Then it sits, quirking it's head to the side, azure eyes almost...concerned.

It smiles, "Red, is everything okay?" in the soothing voice that she's grown up with.

She seizes a moment, throwing herself to the left. The world tumbles and turns. She is safe. Bright and bouncy grass, daffodils and bluebells in bloom. Smoke dances from the chimney up into the expanse of blue. She brushes off the grime and patters down the stony path to the wooden door. Her knuckles raise. A breeze, and the door swings open. She calls out. No answer. A glimmer of grey. Single step. Her foot is warm, sticky. A glance, and a pool of red. Not the ruby of her velour cape. Not rose-red. Crimson, and swirling around her. A fluoresce of silver and the tumbling of wicker on wood, scattering of dough. She spins but collides with glass. She presses her palm against it, her breath marking the invisible cage, but it doesn't budge. Her skin numb against the cool surface, every inch of her hand pushing against the glass. She's mesmerised.

The scene begins to change; it's as if she's looking across a perfect, pristine garden where herbs and flowers mix together, and a rotting swing sways gently from the barren tree. The glass grows and expands, unrefined wooden panelling framing it. It stretches up to the ceiling, down to the floor, all around her. Her feet no longer weigh down on fresh soil, but that same polished floor. Knocking. A distant, echoing of "Red?"

Did I hear mother?

She turns.

There stands her bed, all made up in perfect condition, with her cushions and her blanket, and her bedside table with the candle still burning.

She blinks.

She never left her room.

Written in: 2017, 18 y/o