angelette | original fiction: When The Dead Walk

Fandom: original - Dying Dreams verse
Language: English
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1.000
Warnings: reference to past abuse and alcohol abuse, suicidal thoughts, angst.
Summary: She died long ago, but she can't really move on. Written for this

picfor1000 prompt pic.

A/N: So instead of my old characters, here's a new one. Let me introduce Violet, who will suffer through a lot with my dark fantasy and hc bingo card. I love torturing my characters. :D

When The Dead Walk

The air is freezing cold, and the late afternoon’s pale light washes away the colors, painting the world bleak. The scenery reminds her of old postcards she used to collect about famous places all around the world. It was her only escape back then, cheap enough that she could afford it, but they held enough promise of future freedom and travels to keep her alive and hoping. But even then she knew the pictures never could capture the real life perfectly, it’d always be missing something essential, and it could never replace the real thing.

And funnily enough, now that she’s free to go anywhere and nothing threatens her, she isn’t relieved or happy, ironically she feels like she walks in a postcard or an old photo. Everything looks surreal, as if it’s painted, and though she feels the arriving snow’s taste on her tongue, she isn’t sure she’s real. What if she’s dreaming or maybe someone’s dreaming about her? She had these moments in her life when she was sure she’s only a fictional character to mock and play with.

She tries to cast away the surfacing memories, she can’t let them out, and she has to put them back into the carefully closed jars on her mental shelf, because she has work to do, she can’t fall apart. And if she lets the hungry, greedy and eager monsters out of their prisons, then she would suffocate under their weight for sure. When she’s feeling masochistic enough she allows her own demons to come out and play, to claw, rip and bite into her, to open the old wounds again and paint everything red with her dying dreams and bleeding heart.

But now she has to focus on her task, and she absentmindedly runs her fingers over the tiny leather pouch inside her coat pocket, and the soft feeling reassures her. She has everything she needs, she just doesn’t need to over think it or think in general, for that matter.

So she focuses on the dried leaves crumbling under her feet, as she walks nearby the edge of the woods. When she was little, she loved walking in the forest, and it brings a bittersweet memory of late afternoon strolls, tinkling laughter and the feeling of utter freedom. She loved that when they ventured into the woods near their house, it was like another world, when they were ten, it seemed an alternative universe full of dragons and other creatures to fight and princes and princesses waiting to be saved, when they were sixteen, it was the only place they didn’t have to fear the monster waiting for them at home.

She remembers those carefree moments clearly as if she’s looking at photos of them, and yet the gaping hole in her chest aches more, even though she thought she had numbed herself long ago. One moment she sees them in her mind, sitting on the river’s shore, laughing and talking about trivial things, arguing about who is the best character in the Harry Potter books, and the next all she sees the snow, the casket and the white rose on the cold stone mark.

The rumbling of a motorcycle’s engine startles her from her reverie, and she looks up to see a sleek, black bike slowing beside her. She doesn’t want company, so she continues her walk determinedly, looking ahead, but her follower doesn’t give up, and removes his helmet.

“Need a ride, sweetie?” His voice is rich and deep, and she thinks of dark nights, temptation and poisoned apples.

“Thank you,” she says curtly, “I can walk.”

“Oh, come on,” he insists with a soft laugh. “You’re tired as hell, I can see that. I have this ability, you know.”

And then she looks at him, and really sees him: He has jet-black, wavy hair, seemingly soft as velvet, his skin is unnaturally pale, but he doesn’t look ill, he has a lively glint in his blue eyes. But what gives him away is the red string-like scar emerging from under his shirt’s collar. Her eyes are glued to that grotesque mark, and she shudders as she imagines his head toppling off and seeing all that blood and tendons and flesh. She bites back her nausea, because she’d seen worse than a simple beheading and forces her gaze up to meet his curious eyes.

“I can take you where you can rest,” he says. “Have fun. You know the usual deal.”

She laughs sardonically, but this tempting offer hits her, and she doesn’t want to admit how much she longs for it. She’s so damn tired of all the guilt, the regret, there are days when even the alcohol’s numbing buzz doesn’t help her forget and all she wants is to lie down and never wake up. But she just can’t do it, she knows, she tried.

She fishes out the leather pouch idly, and reaches inside, pinching a little dust between her thumb and forefinger. She grinds it nonchalantly, letting the sun catch on the little gold particles.

As he sees it, his face tightens, and the playfulness is gone from his features.

“Are you really going to miss this opportunity?” he asks seriously. “Are you really going to defy Death itself?”

She shrugs. She knows this is her only chance, so she takes it, not every Irish death omen is this chatty like this. She moves the dust into her palm and blows softly, watching as the flakes shine and dance in the air. He doesn’t move, because it doesn’t kill him, just banishes him into God knows where, and she’s fine with that. She watches as he slowly disintegrates to nothing.

“You can’t kill me,” she says with determination, “because I’m already dead.” And she knows it’s true, despite that her heart is still beating, she’s dead inside; she lost her soul at that grave long ago. So she does the only thing she can: walks along the road, till the world ends.