Annabel [h.s.]

two

These pages are ruined. Every ounce of red, gone and washed away by the storm. All of my hard work, ruined because I was stupid enough to leave this vulnerable to the elements. Stupid. Completely fucking stupid. The words are still etched into the pages, dark ink has seeped far too deep to be removed, my art written in its finality.

I've met a woman today, her soul is nearly as dark as mine and I'm certain that she knows it. She veils her words and speaks them as rarely as I do and her eyes pay attention to every detail. Annabel. Her name is Annabel.

She is different from the other women in many ways. The red is in her eyes and in her lips, saturated so deeply that it's mesmerizing. Last night, she lured me into her room. The catch being that I went willingly, her darkness and the saturation of red were far too alluring to ignore.

Annabel likes it rough. Red flows like a river through her veins, but this time, I didn't want to bleed it out. Her red is not hidden and her red is rich. The other women weren't like her, they needed to experience the deep hue, they needed to feel it on their skin and coating their lungs. They needed me to see it's beauty.

Earlier I lied, I wanted to bleed Annabel. I wanted to open the flood gates and bathe in their output. I wanted to watch the red drain from her eyes and from her lips, like dye as it left the hair that it had saturated. I wanted to bury her and make her flame exquisite.

I would have too, it didn't matter that her door was wide open or that her parents were just downstairs, but I saw the red behind her eyes and it looked just like mine. Annabel's hasn't been brightened yet.

She's lucky, for now.

H.

Rain continued to batter the house and the wind accompanied it's assault by throwing debris around haphazardly and frequently. The power was still out, but no candles were lit. It was dark outside, but the kind of dark that cast a blue glow and therefore eliminated the need for candles.

Annabel sat in her room, poking holes in her skin with a sewing needle. She'd given herself a tattoo of a dagger dripping blood two years prior and she needed to make it fresh again. The sight of crimson intrigued her and she did this often.

Harry watched her from the doorway, his green eyes drawn to the blood that welled up over her porcelain skin. Annabel knew that he was watching her, but she didn't let him know and continued to prick herself until red welled over her thigh in the shape of a dagger.

Harry wanted to press his fingers into her skin and smear the entrancing liquid into another design. Instead he stepped across the hall and into his temporary room. Red red red.

His mind swam in the dark hue and brought him to familiar shores. Annabel's father had come up the stairs nearly ten minutes later. He went straight to her room and asked skeptically, "Were you moving your furniture around last night?"

Harry could hear the smirk behind Annabel's voice long before she spoke.

"No."

Steven glanced into Harry's room. He sat with his back propped up against the headboard as he read a book. It looked like one of Annabel's books, but he still didn't acknowledge the reason behind the loud noises the night before.

Harry smirked behind the thin pages. They'd definitely moved furniture, but not in the way that Steven was thinking of. He couldn't see Harry's expression, or if he was actually intently focused on the book and not his conversation with his daughter. Either way, he stared at him intently for a long minute before giving up and walking back downstairs.