Moonlight Requisition

Her skirts dance about her bare legs, flirting with the wind as she runs. She stumbles and slips but does not fall as her arms wrap themselves onto the small bundle held between her breast. What ever lies within the thin covers lies hidden from prying eyes, protected and secure from the rain that wages war against earth. Each puddle she runs through explodes as her naked feet splits them apart; and running across a road with rocks that stab themselves into her make them not only wet with mud but wet with a thick liquid that makes a rosie tattoo onto her boney ankles. But she runs as if she does not notice the bleeding, as if she runs not because she is in a hurry but as if death is following her every movement, ready to strike any moment. She reaches the other side now, and slows to a walk. She ignores the pain that slowly moves itself up her legs and instead breaths in every breath that she could take in before letting them out just as quickly. She wipes her bloody hands onto a passing wall and hides herself into the shadows before stopping herself to look at her empty hand. Only some blood remains on it now where the wall did not scratch them off. She looks at them and suddenly the shadows that wrap around her become darker, enveloping her in a darkness one would never want to enter. Her eyes are dark, empty from life but bright with an inhuman desire. She watches her hand, yes, her hand she says silently. She uncurls every slender finger before her eyes and looks some more before bringing them to the wet bloody scarf that wraps around her thin throat. A smile spreads itself across her pale bruised face and she whispers just as silently no, my hand and she stands up and holds herself with confidence, letting the shadows hide the signs of some unknown attack so that all passerbyes may see is an orphan girl holding onto her last possession, not knowing the truth that lies beneath the small bundle of covers...

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She walks into the nearby restroom not caring that she is leaving a trail of red blood behind her. She stops and catches sight of a young pale girl. She has long black hair that tangles itself up in spiderwebbed patterns. She has large brown eyes that drag you into them, doing unimaginable things to you as she examines every inch of flesh you harbor and a face that turns into an unnatural milky color, before turning into ashen territory when they wrap around her emty eyes. A loose nightgown hangs upon her shoulders but does not forget to point out to people how petite and fragile she really is as the gown ends at her knees, revealing scrawny legs that hold themselves awkwardly; as if the girl did not know how to stay up properly. The newcomers bloody hand rises and the ghost girl rises her own, to reveal the same slender bloody fingers. A reflection she thinks, and an odd feeling rises up within her. A feeling that rises up so high with excitement and joy yet threatens to fall any minute into an unending fall that reminds you constantly of what might have been. This feeling frightens the girl, as she is uncertain as to how she should deal with this odd yet new thing that resides within her. To see oneself before oneself in the eyes others may see them is a most frightening experience, especially to one who had never seen themselves before; especially when one sees themselves in the body that use to belong to another.

She walks to the farthest sink from the door and slowly brings down the bundle she carries into its white cracked glass. Her face suddenly becomes gentle, a mother looking down at her sleeping child, yet the thing that lies within the covers is anything but a child. Her head rises up, back to her reflection, as her fingers reach out to the bloody scarf wrapped around her neck. Her fingers slowly work together in a perfect dance before they reveal the bloody mess beneath. She drops the scarf into the sink beside her, never taking her glassy eyes off her other self. Her fingers twirl and dance on her neck as they run themselves down the deep cut that travels across it. Blood dries itself onto the cut, blocking more from spilling. It drips down onto her dress and she moves her eyes onto it. Lost she becomes as each drop leaves an impression on the thin dress. The roses begin to bloom, spreading their petals as far as they can go. She wants to grab them, she wants to hold them in the palm of her hand. Its her blood now. Her life now.

Her transfixed gaze moves from the patterns and moves onto the bundle in the next sink. She tilts her head as she looks, her eyes losing all the hunger they had held as she gazed at the blood. The small smile vanishes, her eyes darken, and she reaches out to the bundle. It was a reminder, a reminder of what she had once been, and she abhored its existence with every part she now possessed. Her motherly eyes turn into shadows as her fingers begin to touch the covers, the covers that held her sleeping child. Gently she runs them down and they leave a trail of fresh blood in their wake. And just as suddenly as her breath she clutches the covers in a tight grip while her other hand brings itself up in a fist, ready to smother whatever lie beneath in a beating of pure distaste. And then her muscles stop and relax. Her arms lower themselves, her eyes turn into laughter, but her lips never move. She pulls the bundle of mystery into her arms and holds it tenderly. Rocks it even. Back and forth her body goes, and anyone watching would see nothing more than a mother putting her child to sleep. She turns around toward a stall and walks into it, her head bowed down, hair making a dark curtain on her face. She sits onto the seat and shuts the door, pulls her knees up to her chest and squeezes the caccoon between her and curls her body over it. Than are you able to see the river of tears that flow down her cheeks freely, tears that make a lake of sorrow onto her covers. She cries, yet she does not understand what tears are for. Regret maybe. Guilt even.