Categories > Comics > No Rest for the Wicked

Blackbird Singing

by BelaLuna 0 reviews

Blackbird singing in the dead of night, as it tries to learn to fly.... Red after the tragic wolf incident. Originally posted on

Category: No Rest for the Wicked - Rating: PG-13 - Genres: Horror - Published: 2006-04-14 - Updated: 2006-04-15 - 485 words

Stained, all stained and ruin. She touched the floor -stained. She touched her face -stained. She touched her dress -stained. Red sat in the corner, too tired to move and too frightened to scream. Her brown eyes stared at her ensanguined fingers. Feebly, she flexed her fingers. The strain on them brought tears to her eyes. She flexed them again, crying. Everything was so red. She laid her hand on the floor, her skin sticking to red floorboards.

She wiped away her torrid tears. Red jerked her hand away from her face, knowing that her face was stained red. She pressed her hands against the wall behind her -sticky, unclean- and forced herself to stand on trembling legs. She looked across the room, everything red. Too much red.

She fell to her knees, the fresh pain bringing more tears to her eyes. She had been careless, had strayed off the path for weak, pretty flowers -red flowers. She shut her eyes to block the images, then opened them when she found that what she saw with her eyes closed were worse than what she saw with them open.

Putrid vile strained to clamber up her throat. She breathed in deeply and choked on the disgusting scent of red. Red, red, red -there was too much red in the room.

She stood once more and clutched the table to support her bruised and battered body. What use was she now? Her eyes swept the room, lower lip trembling and eyes stinging. She was alone with the dead, facing her own scattered spirit. Her gaze avoided the bed with its soft mattress and thick blanket...

All that red, all was blood. Blood spilt on the floor, blood sullying the bed, and blood spread on the wall. Her eyes settled on the shredded forms, barely recognisable with their lack of hair and patches of bone showing through pink muscle and red skin. The blood was still flowing from their necks, their lungs, and gaping holes in their arms and thighs, arranged in a heap on the bed.

She looked at the floor, another prone figure lying on the drying floor. The tears ceased and all she saw was red. Red hair, dark clothes, and clean, white bones laced with brown. She knelt before him, no more prayers in her mind and no more faith in religion.

She picked up the axe, carelessly fingering the edge. She brought back her thumb, a delicate cut with blood bubbling to the surface. Just a little more red. She touched her hair, stuck fast together with her mother's blood. Without hesitation she lifted one bunch and hacked off the offending hair with her father's axe. She picked up the other one and removed it. She looked at her hair, once her pride, shorn and ruined on the floor. She was Red, too old to be alive, but too young to be dead.
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