Work Text:
white and red.
white wine, red cup.
dripping down a hand of ivory onto the pristine floor. a mess no one dared clean up, for the one who spilt it had already departed.
unpigmented hair, ruby comb.
through tangles and knots, went dexterous hands, uncaring of the child it cried under.
ashen tiles, cherry feet.
running from what, running from whom, she did not know. but run she must. for her fate depends on it.
pearly teeth, scarlet lies.
his voice spoke of freedom, his tongue leaked resentment for it. but her voice was gone, so silent she remained.
pallid hands.
blood.
bloodbloodbloodblood-
on her hands, on her silken garments, on her hair, on her knife, at her feet, on the cadaver in front of her.
it stained her eyes, even though not a speck of it had landed on her face.
shaking fingers dropped the knife as realization washed over her.
she wouldn't be hurt by her again.
...
she didn't have to stay, there was no particular reason to.
but padded footsteps caught her attention.
a smile grew, her head turned.
for someone bore witness.
....
to drink for the first time is the scariest. to drink for the second is to commemorate the first. to drink for the third time is just an excuse. to feel that euphoria again.
such is to take a life.
...
her wounds no longer bore significance. their struggling no longer caused her to feel any sense of pity. their screams no longer hurt her. nothing did really.
and so, like the lifeless corpse she carried, she dragged herself forward.
...
it shouldn't have been unexpected. she could have hidden from anyone else. but not from her. oh no of course not, for who can know a painting more than the love struck artist it was drawn by? the hands that wove her into being could see farther into her than any by stander could. those same hands cradled her. held her. sheltered her and suffocated her. for it was the Ruth directed towards her by those hands that became too much to bear.
...
it kept happening. again and again. she would commit and bellow in silence. and those same hands provided her warmth. she didn't deserve it. she wanted to tear those hands off.
...
she confronted her, her beloved Beth. with hands shaking in soundless anguish and a silent threat. to leave her. to let her desiccate and to cease. but her hands opened for her one and only, a complacent smile on her face. they both dashed forward, one with an intent to silence and the other to free.