writers_muses Prompt 72
Little Anne was born in the spring, the time of new life and fresh starts. Flowers bloomed wherever she walked. She was Persephone and Isis and Maia. She was dryad and nymph and woodland spirit. Her clothes always smelt of lavender, because she scattered dried flowers between the layers in her trunk. Her fingers were stained red from strawberry picking, and, whenever she returned to the house from one of her walks, her hair and clothes were covered in burdocks and other clever little seeds. They couldn’t let such a wonderful girl pass without clinging on and trying to become a part of her. She was everyone’s favourite.
Drusilla was born in the autumn, in the in-between time. It was too busy to be winter and too quiet to be summer. The world hovered on the edge of things, unsure which way to fall, and Drusilla lived her life in the same way. Poised between good and evil, between summer and winter, between childhood and adulthood. It didn’t matter. Anne loved her. Anne - who was everything that was good in the world - picked posies for her elder sister, and they sang special songs which nobody else could understand.
Then the Beast came.
He didn’t have a face at first. He was all shadows and whispers, like the paintings on the walls of old churches. They’d been burned and broken by King Henry’s men, centuries ago now, but if you scraped away the ash you could still make out something.
She tried not to listen. She covered her ears and pushed the thoughts away, just like Mama told her to. The pictures in her head were an affront to the Lord. Pictures about the Beast would probably get her into even more trouble. They used to burn witches, didn’t they? Drusilla could feel the flames lapping at her ankles and biting at her petticoats, if she thought about it too much.
She tried not to think about it.
She said her prayers like a good little girl, and, when the night came, she could pretend it didn’t hold any secrets at all.
***
It was springtime when the Beast came for Anne. The weather wasn’t warm, not yet, but the birds twittered and the sky lightened and you could feel the potential in the air. Everything that the year was going to be was spread out before them, and it should have been beautiful.
It should have been beautiful.
Drusilla woke up in tears. Anne, who had been sleeping softly next to her, was woken up by the jerking motions of her sobs, but she was a creature of the day and not the night. It took her a while to focus.
“Drusilla? Drusilla, what’s wrong?”
“Anne!” Little Anne, white as death and red as blood, glassy eyes staring up nothing. “Oh, Anne! You need to leave ...”
“Leave?” her sister repeated with wide eyes, soft curls framing a heart shaped face.
“Yes. We must pack you a bag. You can go and stay with Uncle John. Just for a few days.”
Just until it’s safe. Then the dream can pass back into the nothing world where it belongs, forgotten.
“It’s the middle of the night! Mama will never call out the carriage at this hour. And besides, we’re going blackberry picking with Sophie tomorrow. I can’t leave.”
The blackberries could wait. Drusilla pictured the Beast - still largely unformed in her mind, but drawing closer - with rich red juice dripping from his lips. Redder than autumn leaves, redder than strawberry-stained fingers, redder than blood.
“Then don’t take the carriage,” she whispered, “Walk, if you have to. It isn’t a long journey. You’ll be safe there.”
If you change the pieces then the jigsaw won’t fit together and the picture won’t come true.
“Safe? From what? Drusilla, you’re scaring me.”
“I know, Anne. I’m sorry.” She leaned forward, enveloping her sister in a tight hug, inhaling lavender and soap and the cotton of her nightdress. “I love you, dearest sister. Please trust me.”
“Of course I trust you,” Anne murmured against her hair, “Of course I trust you.”
“I’ll keep you safe.”
***
The policeman came before breakfast, when it was still dark and the house was just starting to wake up. He was terribly still, as if he’d been carved out of some hard wood, but his hat was tucked under his arm, and, when Papa opened the door, the creases around his eyes deepened and allowed the shadows to flow in.
Mama cried. Mama sobbed. Papa stood next to her, one hand resting on her shoulder and the other clutching Sophie’s. He’d been carved from stone, not wood, but anyone could see the cracks if they looked close enough.
Drusilla didn’t cry. Her grief went beyond tears, beyond words. It felt as if her heart had been torn out of her chest, and she screwed up her eyes until she could will the image of the Beast - the image of the Beast with a heart in his hand, wrapping it up in tissue paper and sliding it into his pocket - away.
She’d broken her promise. She’d promised to keep Anne safe, and she’d tried. She’d tried. But now the little goddess was gone. Spring could never come again. The sun would rise and the birds would sing and the flowers would grow, but spring was gone.
“What wicked creature could do this?” whispered Mama, “To an innocent little girl?”
Oh, Mama! It was my fault. I killed Anne! I saw what was going to happen and I thought I could stop it if I told her to run away. I tried to save her from the Beast, but instead I pushed her into his jaws.
The Beast laughed, and the flames tugged at her ankles. Feeling sick, Drusilla bit down on her tongue.
“If our Lord saw fit to take Anne from us,” said Papa, voice thick with grief, “Then so be it. She’s in Heaven now. We can’t question His will”
“But Papa,” Drusilla burst out, before she could swallow the words again, “It wasn’t the Lord who took Anne, it was the Beast!”
It was the Beast, and this was only the beginning.
***
In the end, she was sent to back to bed. It wasn’t an appropriate time to spout such lies - if there was ever an appropriate time - but Mama and Papa were too shattered by grief to try and ‘deal’ with Drusilla. They had to go to the police station and were in such a hurry that they actually forgot to say their morning prayers.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t listening today.
Drusilla stepped out into the garden as the first rays of daylight chased the night away. Chased away the night and chased away the Beast. Too late.
It was raining. Only a spring rain, though. A light rain, as soft as gossamer and as delicate as spider webs. The sort of rain little Anne had liked to catch on her tongue.
Had. She’d never be able to do it again. Anne would never go strawberry picking again, or sing silly little songs with her sisters, or press flowers in the pages of the Bible.
Drusilla lay down in the lavender patch, trying to inhale the familiar scent through the damp of the morning. All she could smell was blood. Her blood, or Anne’s blood, she wasn’t sure anymore. No seeds tried to cling to her dress. Wicked girl. Murderer.
Closing her eyes, she raised her face to the rain. She was so cold. It didn’t matter. She was never going to be warm again.
This was only the beginning.
Prompt: 'Ancient Eyes' Picture Prompt
Word Count: 1298
Drusilla was born in the autumn, in the in-between time. It was too busy to be winter and too quiet to be summer. The world hovered on the edge of things, unsure which way to fall, and Drusilla lived her life in the same way. Poised between good and evil, between summer and winter, between childhood and adulthood. It didn’t matter. Anne loved her. Anne - who was everything that was good in the world - picked posies for her elder sister, and they sang special songs which nobody else could understand.
Then the Beast came.
He didn’t have a face at first. He was all shadows and whispers, like the paintings on the walls of old churches. They’d been burned and broken by King Henry’s men, centuries ago now, but if you scraped away the ash you could still make out something.
She tried not to listen. She covered her ears and pushed the thoughts away, just like Mama told her to. The pictures in her head were an affront to the Lord. Pictures about the Beast would probably get her into even more trouble. They used to burn witches, didn’t they? Drusilla could feel the flames lapping at her ankles and biting at her petticoats, if she thought about it too much.
She tried not to think about it.
She said her prayers like a good little girl, and, when the night came, she could pretend it didn’t hold any secrets at all.
***
It was springtime when the Beast came for Anne. The weather wasn’t warm, not yet, but the birds twittered and the sky lightened and you could feel the potential in the air. Everything that the year was going to be was spread out before them, and it should have been beautiful.
It should have been beautiful.
Drusilla woke up in tears. Anne, who had been sleeping softly next to her, was woken up by the jerking motions of her sobs, but she was a creature of the day and not the night. It took her a while to focus.
“Drusilla? Drusilla, what’s wrong?”
“Anne!” Little Anne, white as death and red as blood, glassy eyes staring up nothing. “Oh, Anne! You need to leave ...”
“Leave?” her sister repeated with wide eyes, soft curls framing a heart shaped face.
“Yes. We must pack you a bag. You can go and stay with Uncle John. Just for a few days.”
Just until it’s safe. Then the dream can pass back into the nothing world where it belongs, forgotten.
“It’s the middle of the night! Mama will never call out the carriage at this hour. And besides, we’re going blackberry picking with Sophie tomorrow. I can’t leave.”
The blackberries could wait. Drusilla pictured the Beast - still largely unformed in her mind, but drawing closer - with rich red juice dripping from his lips. Redder than autumn leaves, redder than strawberry-stained fingers, redder than blood.
“Then don’t take the carriage,” she whispered, “Walk, if you have to. It isn’t a long journey. You’ll be safe there.”
If you change the pieces then the jigsaw won’t fit together and the picture won’t come true.
“Safe? From what? Drusilla, you’re scaring me.”
“I know, Anne. I’m sorry.” She leaned forward, enveloping her sister in a tight hug, inhaling lavender and soap and the cotton of her nightdress. “I love you, dearest sister. Please trust me.”
“Of course I trust you,” Anne murmured against her hair, “Of course I trust you.”
“I’ll keep you safe.”
***
The policeman came before breakfast, when it was still dark and the house was just starting to wake up. He was terribly still, as if he’d been carved out of some hard wood, but his hat was tucked under his arm, and, when Papa opened the door, the creases around his eyes deepened and allowed the shadows to flow in.
Mama cried. Mama sobbed. Papa stood next to her, one hand resting on her shoulder and the other clutching Sophie’s. He’d been carved from stone, not wood, but anyone could see the cracks if they looked close enough.
Drusilla didn’t cry. Her grief went beyond tears, beyond words. It felt as if her heart had been torn out of her chest, and she screwed up her eyes until she could will the image of the Beast - the image of the Beast with a heart in his hand, wrapping it up in tissue paper and sliding it into his pocket - away.
She’d broken her promise. She’d promised to keep Anne safe, and she’d tried. She’d tried. But now the little goddess was gone. Spring could never come again. The sun would rise and the birds would sing and the flowers would grow, but spring was gone.
“What wicked creature could do this?” whispered Mama, “To an innocent little girl?”
Oh, Mama! It was my fault. I killed Anne! I saw what was going to happen and I thought I could stop it if I told her to run away. I tried to save her from the Beast, but instead I pushed her into his jaws.
The Beast laughed, and the flames tugged at her ankles. Feeling sick, Drusilla bit down on her tongue.
“If our Lord saw fit to take Anne from us,” said Papa, voice thick with grief, “Then so be it. She’s in Heaven now. We can’t question His will”
“But Papa,” Drusilla burst out, before she could swallow the words again, “It wasn’t the Lord who took Anne, it was the Beast!”
It was the Beast, and this was only the beginning.
***
In the end, she was sent to back to bed. It wasn’t an appropriate time to spout such lies - if there was ever an appropriate time - but Mama and Papa were too shattered by grief to try and ‘deal’ with Drusilla. They had to go to the police station and were in such a hurry that they actually forgot to say their morning prayers.
It didn’t matter. He wasn’t listening today.
Drusilla stepped out into the garden as the first rays of daylight chased the night away. Chased away the night and chased away the Beast. Too late.
It was raining. Only a spring rain, though. A light rain, as soft as gossamer and as delicate as spider webs. The sort of rain little Anne had liked to catch on her tongue.
Had. She’d never be able to do it again. Anne would never go strawberry picking again, or sing silly little songs with her sisters, or press flowers in the pages of the Bible.
Drusilla lay down in the lavender patch, trying to inhale the familiar scent through the damp of the morning. All she could smell was blood. Her blood, or Anne’s blood, she wasn’t sure anymore. No seeds tried to cling to her dress. Wicked girl. Murderer.
Closing her eyes, she raised her face to the rain. She was so cold. It didn’t matter. She was never going to be warm again.
This was only the beginning.
Prompt: 'Ancient Eyes' Picture Prompt
Word Count: 1298