Gemma

It’s been two days since you left me. I want you to know that your blood-print still stains the wooden floorboards. Who would have thought the old man to have so much blood in him? There your blood sits, festering on my floorboards. Not kind decaying flesh that flocks but never swarms. Blood. A shadow of life that you never let me wash away. Bleach. Water. That is what your life has come to. Me scrubbing those floorboards, knees scrubbing those floorboards, hands scrubbing those floorboards. Even my own sorté of skin is not enough. You will never let me be enough. You will never let me rid myself of those remnants. One day when I rid myself of that blood your bacteria will remain. Perhaps I will scrub, scrub so well that I rid myself of all of you scum but one. That one survives, spawns, multiplies. Suddenly I have a coup in my hand that you began. I cannot allow that. You were too charged, full of the gaping demons of your own life. Don’t set Pandora's box free, you’ll only fall in there yourself.

It’s dusk. The most beautiful time of day. Night had serenaded day, wooing it into a little sliver of time and now it cashes in, swooping in, wearing a spaghetti strap of jewels that only dazzle brighter against the ebony. Down it looks, breathing in the scent of the beautiful miniverse it’s laboured into creation. One creation, an elegantly quaint path comes into sight as moon’s gaze turns south. Barely visible to the weak human eye, this singular road links mismatched stranger and citizen from urban sprawl to controlled nature. Each paving slab on this singular path glows a little gloss that day could never bring and lamplights leading the inhabitants hold a little husk against night’s dress, offering a small bounty.

Along this alleyway a small figure arrives. Delicate and fairy-like she seems like romance against the darkness, glowing with her own special aura, and yet, you'd barely see her against the black, so subtly crafted is her glow. Her kind should not be seen by the likes of us. Yet, here she is, in plain view at the witching hour. Something is wrong. Something has gone awry. She should not be out. She should not be here. Especially, she should not be here. She is moving too quickly, arms fluttering from side to side. What a special night it is for her! She should have been married today, surrounded jewels and lace. A heavily embroidered trench-coat, her barrier against the icy night. Now it is her only protection. The thick material is beginning to weigh her down, sodden with water and goopy, viscous blood. She wonders how long she can keep up this pace, already her footstep has changed from the pitter-patter it was to a heavy thud. Any slowing in her pace causes her to glance backwards, searching for the something that she knows is watching her. But, for the moment, she looks forward again, plundering onwards. She is almost at the mouth if the pathways, a few moment away from reaching the park and from there onwards there are many places to hide. Only a few more steps you can almost hear her saying to herself. And it seems to work. The night becomes electrified by a million-thousand volts, as she charges herself up, seeking out the last spur of energy within herself.

Suddenly, her destination becomes oh so clear to us in her desperation. There are two birch trees that mark the entrance to this park, entwined in arch that can only speak of a lovers grip. A swollen opportunity. Her feet are pounding now as, with one final glance the pathway, she lets out a springing jump. Lift-off. Her arms dart around the circumference of the tree and there she begins hoisting herself upwards, like some kind of tree-nymph, each hand placing itself automatically.

Abruptly, a harsh shriek is heard, and a man's dark figure comes into view, cutting the night into two. Such a petrifying effect this voice seems to have upon her, shooting a rod of metal up her back, freezing her into place as she morphs into the leaves.