9A/N: I didn't win the contest (no surprise there XD) so here it is, completely different and hopefully better. Enjoy!
A silent brush of his finger and the bloody smear vanished from his cheek. Although I struggled to turn my face away from his profile, I could barely move. He turned toward me, his long arms crossed, his hands draped elegantly over his elbows. His ethereal eyes were a dark indigo; they shined innocently in the moonlight spilling through the window.
Pressing tighter against the sofa cushions, I breathed in the coppery smell of blood. I tried to whimper, scream, cry, anything, but an invisible hand strangled me. I dug my fingers into the pillow's soggy fabric. He stepped toward me, as if his feet would shatter the carpet. Bending down, he held my gaze. His smile was radiant.
"'Find me where the Lost River ends,
Where memories begin.'"
The words stretched, one flowing into the next. When he pulled the pillow from my grasp, my fingers continued to clutch nothing but air. He lifted a bony finger and touched my cheek. His skin burned an icy trail down my face, leaving a wet path behind it. Wiping the spot with my palm, I brought my hand in front of my face. Blood, of course.
By the time I realized he was gone, blood was already seeping down my neck.
I flipped the cover of my journal closed, placing it and the pencil in the long grass. I took a small bite of the turkey sandwich Grandma Olive had packed, and almost spit it out again. Burning paste. I scrunched my nose up and swallowed with difficulty. The food pricked at my intestines. I put the sandwich down, and looked up to find Nayla staring at me. She had been my best friend since middle school.
"Something wrong, Hekate?" Grandma Olive asked. She had raised me since I was three, after my parents' murder. She explained I had been visiting her when they were killed at home, and that was why I didn't recall the incident.
Grandma Olive had long, wavy white hair that fell past her hips. She always kept it tied back in a long braid, with strands that framed her face. She was a shockingly beautiful woman for her age, with delicate features and soft grey eyes. Her skin was always cold, which she claimed came from being outside so much. She worked as a local gardener, and earned enough money to sustain us.
"I think the turkey's gone bad," I grumbled.
"Let me try some," Nayla said, holding out her hand for my sandwich. I gave her the strange tasting food, massaging my throbbing temples as she took a small bite.
"Tastes fine to me," Nayla said.
"Do you want something else, love? I have some crackers," Grandma Olive offered. I shook my head.
"No thanks, I'm not that hungry." I picked up my writing journal, my fingers brushing the black leather. The silver sun stitched onto the front glimmered in the bright sunshine. I filled a page with swirls and triangles before curling up on my side in the soft grass, using my arm to cushion my aching head. As my eyes closed, the silver and golden suns continued to outshine each other.
That evening Nayla and I sat in front of the TV watching the news. The rare sunshine had left at four o'clock, and the intense cold had returned. Nayla and I shared a large blue blanket. A woman with straight blonde hair in a suit flashed on the screen, she was standing outside a light blue house. "Julia Boone, age six, was spending the night with her grandparents when the kidnapper snuck in through the window…"
"I hate people who do stuff like this, don't you?" Nayla said, flipping through more channels.
"I don't know," I breathed, "isn't hate kind of a strong word?" I glanced at Nayla when she didn't respond. Her eyes were half closed and unfocused.
"Do you think prisoners should have the death penalty?" she mumbled, before yawning widely.
"No. Wouldn't that make us just as bad as they are?" I suddenly recalled the dream I had the night before… if that man had killed my parents, shouldn't I want him dead? My insides felt shriveled with guilt. Grandma Olive had raised me to appreciate everything, but it was my parents I was thinking about… shouldn't I want to avenge them? I didn't know what I should feel.
Just thinking about my dream and the man, or whatever he was, made me tremble.
"I'm still not sure if they deserve it or not. I guess it depends on what they did," said Nayla, turning off the TV. She stretched and rubbed her eyes. A lock of hair fell in front of her eye as she turned to face me.
"Want to go for a walk?" she asked, already slipping into her sandals.
"A short one. My head hurts a little." That was the biggest understatement I had ever said. My head throbbed constantly. It felt as if a immovable spiky rock was wedged inside my skull, and if I moved my head to one side, one of the spikes would pierce my temple.
"Okay. Well, here, this will keep your head warm." Nayla handed me her red wool hat. It had a little fluff ball on the top, and earflaps that hung down.
"Won't you be cold?" I asked, pulling the hat on. Nayla shrugged, taking my scarf, and wrapping it around her head like a turban. She stuck out her tongue at me and giggled.
We walked for twenty minutes, clutching each other to keep warm in the infinite winter. I walked Nayla back to her house, taking back my scarf and returning her hat.
Across the street from my house was one of my favorite places. It was an old cemetery that had stood since the founding of our town, Ravenore. I usually visited it once a week to relax and think.
I doubted Grandma Olive would be happy if she knew I went there. She expected me to be home soon.
I easily pushed open the graveyard gate, closing it with a clang. The cemetery was reduced to a long expanse of dirt, gravel, and piles of small stones. A gravel path wound toward the back, where a half-dead willow tree stood. The fat moon bathed the graveyard in an icy glow. Shadows that were normally there were gone. A tall tombstone I had never noticed before was propped against the tree. I sprinted towards it.
Once I reached it, I kneeled and touched its surface lightly, because it looked like it would crumble if an ant crawled on it. Thankfully, it remained sturdy and erect. Cracks slithered along its sides, crisscrossed along the bottom, and a few spider webs formed a net around the writing. Ignoring the sharp pounding in my temples, I turned my attention to the black letters inscribed on the tombstone, brushing away the cobwebs to read: Ardyth Spiros, 1692-1708
How could a grave this old still be standing? I thought, turning around on my bottom. I stretched my legs and let the grave support my weight. The grey stone felt cool against my back and supported my shoulder blades comfortably. The gravestone seemed to cradle me as if I were a child, and conjured an image from the depths of my memory. I could see a dark ceiling with red splashes across it. Fear drowned my heart. My hands went numb. A voice began to sing. It washed against my face gently like liquid silk, yet it was majestic and powerful at the same time.
Faire in a morne, oh, fairest morne was ever morne
So faire,
When as the sun but not the same that shined in
The air,
And on a hill, or fairest hill was neer hill so
slessed,
There stood a man was never man for no man so
distressed.
The ethereal peace that radiated from the tombstone embraced me. I shut my eyes.
Something soft tickled my nose. I cracked one eye open, finding a thin leaf draped over the bridge of my nose. I picked it up and threw it behind me. I shielded my eyes from the harsh glare of the sun that seeped weakly through the gray clouds overhead. I suddenly doubled over, shivering violently. My back ached slightly, and my legs felt numb. After the shivers stopped, I sprinted out the cemetery gate. It shut with a clang as my feet carried me home. I knew Grandma Olive would panic if she woke and couldn't find me.
Grandma Olive was still asleep, so I could slip into my room and collapse onto my bed without the fear of her wrath. Only when my head hit the pillow did I realize something. My headache was gone.