(A SHERLOCK HOLMES FAN-FIC)
A puddle splashed when a foot plunged into its centre, the foot of Mae Blaine. The rhythmic drum of footsteps, echoed off walls of the dark alleyway. She pumped an endless amount of energy into her feet; she was growing t...
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The smell that loomed in the air held the taunting traits of copper blood – thick and strong – the sort which a dead corpse would have been so murderously lathered in. Every being in the room held in shuddering breaths, it was safe to say, they were all unnerved. Anais-Mae breathed in through her nose whilst flattening the creases on the belly of her ivory blouse. The young girl had green eyes – the glimmering kind of green that pushed through blankets of sharp snow in the earliest touches of spring, they seared through the double-glazed windows.
The windows did their job, separating her empty stare from her mothers. The majesty of her youthful eyes faded to a murky, withered shade – like pond scum freckled with ripples of dirty gold, a gold that held no value. In that moment, all was dimmed. Her father's skin drained away to an opaque, sleazy white and his heavy eyelids drooped in sadness – she had always known he'd sympathised with her mother. Even as she sat before them a murderer, a criminal, an evil doer, she'd even abandon her atheist ideology to dub her a sinner.
Anais-Mae stole a fleeting glance at her feet, clad in faux-leather scraped in wild memories of a happier kind of ignorance. She looked up. The skeletal frame of the remnants of her mother were escorted onto a padded chair. She looked sickly, not in the sense that inspired sympathy, but the sort that would better suit the idea of an evil witch from a children's fairy-tale.
The young girl's stomach clenched within itself with a searing ferocity, cold perspiration formed on her forehead as a brooding prison guard strapped the witch in. The witch, her mother, Stacy Morana, wore a famously poisonous smirk that in itself told an infinite amount of stories of horror. Stories of decaying blood withering away under harsh lights, of wide wounds that replicated vacant, never-ending tunnels. Those stories she held in her smile were the very tip of a menacing life lived. Anais-Mae shivered.
Once the guards un-cuffed her mother's bruised wrists, she'd helpfully adjusted herself- holding out her slim arms and relaxing her spine against the chair. It was the tranquillity pooling contently on her sharp face that disgusted the room – what made them all terrified. Anais-Mae counted two minutes by tapping her small fingers on her thigh – two minutes for the men in cold blue uniforms to latch her mother down tightly. Black straps accompanied the heavy, thick buckles at her sharp shoulders, flat chest, gaunt waist and emaciated knees.
From the front row of the anxious room, Anais-Mae could catch sight of the leather Velcro straps rubbing her mother's wrists red and sore. As the minutes became seconds, the daughter looked up at her mother's eyes, which – despite the double glazed windows – seemed to pierce directly into her, with all their misty-grey, horrid glory; a river-like blue fogged in bitter coffee steam and a shine of imminent danger. Her chafed, scabbed lips moved slowly.
