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message 1: by [deleted user] (new)

Crimson
A (finished) short story I wrote for English class... I didn't get any feedback on the "SHARE?!" topic, so I might on here.

Marceline Griselda Teresa Gloria Marie Cassandra Julianne Sofia Alexandra Gabrielle Elisabeth Gracely III lounged casually on the couch with the blood-red cushions. The room overall did not consist of much: a fireplace, two armchairs, and end table, and, of course, the couch.

It was days like these that Marceline reflected on herself. It sounded terribly… What was the word? Sensitive, soft, ridiculous… She almost laughed out loud – she was making such a fool of herself. But, of course, no one really knew what Marceline did on days like this. The door lay ajar, but somehow, despite this, everybody had a sort of specific logic to not enter. Because there was a sort of unspoken understanding between all of them:

Never speak to Marceline.


Of course, they didn’t call her Marceline. They called her Miss, or Mistress, or, if they were younger than her, Ma’am. The young heiress was the mistress of the household, and nobody messed with her. After all, they all knew what happened to the last one who dared set foot in that room.

Well, they didn’t quite know what had happened, because, well, proof of what actually did happen never came. But considering the circumstances, they could take an educated guess – though they weren’t educated, they were servants and nobody educates servants. Or not the same way that they would educate someone of the wealthy or middle class, at least. But even a snail could figure out what had happened. It was a bit self-implied. (The servants were rather proud to be able to use that big word.)

However, Marceline was not one of those people to be ashamed of her mistakes. Obviously she had many, at least compared to other people. She enjoyed their fear, basked in the respect they gave her. Every little morsel of affection in her body corroded away with the character that Marceline once was. Or at least, they say she was. But no one really knew.

After the war, with her beloved dad and mum dead, the heiress had dismissed the servants. If they did not wish to leave, they did not get a second chance. She was that sort of woman. And somehow they all knew what had happened – all so similar to the last servant who had dared enter The Room (for that is what they called it, because what else might they call it?).

So no one in Gracely Manor quite knew that the old Marceline was like. Truth be told, it was difficult to imagine that one girl (or, lady) could endeavor such change in such little time. For what do you think, one person can change from Daddy’s little princess to Daddy’s little killer in the course of two years? Very unlikely.

No one imagined it could really be true. After all, how much did they truly know about Marceline? If they were truly, completely, wholly, brutally honest with themselves (all the servants, at least), they could come to one conclusion:

They didn’t really know anything about Marceline except her name.


And that in itself was the truly terrifying thing about Marceline: no one truly knew who she was, what she looked like, why she was the way she was.

Meanwhile, Marceline laid on the couch, a scarlet apple balanced carefully between five perfectly manicured crimson fingernails. Giving the illusion of sharp, hardened blood, the nails worked as tiny red daggers, piercing the surface of the apple. So fragile, so perishable was this apple. Her fingernails bit into the apple, releasing the fragrant aroma. For a moment, one thought crossed her mind:

The scent was sweet.


Marceline Gracely did not hesitate a moment. In her very fingertips, the fruit crumbled in decay, the pieces falling to the ground and marring the dark-wood floors. All that remained in her hand was the brittle skeleton of the core. She smirked as the moldy apple bits mingled on the ground with dust.

Marceline thought that the monotony of all these situations was boring. Every sweet thing, every beautiful thing, every little thing in there (except her antique furniture, of course). And every time someone actually dared to enter she’d send them crumbling to dust before they could say a word. And the dust didn’t go to waste, no. It made wonderful litter for her cats. She would scoop it into a sack and leave it outside the door where the maid knew to take it.

But then, the maid never knew quite what it was. And surely the lack of clarity protected Marceline, for if they knew – if anyone knew – then surely she would be put in prison, or dissected like an animal.

In a split second, the apple core crumbled to the ground, and Marceline’s head shot up. She turned her head toward the door, where it creaked open and a face appeared.

Now; there was nothing particularly special about this face. In fact, there was nothing special about it at all. It was a young man’s face, she could tell. Maybe eighteen or so. The look on his face was inquisitive, and Marceline’s outstretched finger twitched, beckoning him forward.

He did indeed step forward, his face clearly in shock – none of the other servants truly knew that Marceline Gracely looked like. He could ask her a million questions, but instead, he said, “Why are you this way?”

She looked at him, eyes glaring deeply at him.

She said, “I saw crimson.”

Before he knew it, his body was crumbling into decay and dust and mold, first his legs, then his arms, then his torso, then his neck, then his head. All that was left was a heap of rubble on the ground. More litter for the cats.

Marceline smiled to herself, standing and reaching down to grab a handful of dust, letting it run through her fingers and catch in her long fingernails.

Crimson is her color. Crimson is her past. Crimson is her reason. Crimson is her life. Crimson is her power. Crimson is her blood. Crimson is her future. Crimson is her life-line. Crimson is everything she’s ever said and done.

Crimson is her.


message 2: by rosebee (new)

rosebee (rose33) That's incredibly creepy...and I'm not gonna' lie. I didn't understand it at all :P But you described everything with a very interesting detail and used good words:)


message 3: by [deleted user] (new)

THANK YOU! You actually replied to it. :P You didn't on the original. :P


message 4: by rosebee (last edited Feb 20, 2012 04:30PM) (new)

rosebee (rose33) And for that, I apologize. :P


message 5: by [deleted user] (new)

Thanks anyway. :P


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