Young Writers Society

A/N: Howdy ho, it's been a while (again). :D Originally started writing this for a "creepy crazy person" -contest, but never finished it. Picked it up today and this is the end result. Rough, for sure, but the first time in a few months I've gotten more than a couple of lines on paper. Criticism is highly encouraged, I'd like to hear some opinions on this (as it is a rather obscure style). Other than that, enjoy!

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The music twisted and writhed around me, a dance of courtship, full of dips and turns and shy glances. It wove in and out of me, ever moving, ever changing; I breathed it in and it breathed me out, slow and steady. Steadiness. A shoulder to lean on. The hard notes knit me back together as the tears pouring down my face unravelled me one memory at a time. I rocked back and forth, the old rocking chair creaking in the empty cabin. We rocked separately, out of time, out of tune, the rocking chair and I. I didn't need its guidance, I didn't need a fatherly hand. We happened to occupy the same space; I hadn't sought it out for company. Their company had left me, left me all by myself. There had never been anyone to tell me otherwise, no one to say ”no”.

It was raining outside. The drops splattered onto the roof, pounded on the door, but I wouldn't open it. They had no right to come in. It was raining inside. Water slithered down my cheeks, hollowly striking the puddle on the parapet. It stung. I wondered if it had stung for her. Most probably had. I imagined her small, fragile head in my lap. It rained harder. The creaking of the chair echoed off the shadows, driving nails into my skull. I let them drive, they had made the choice to drink, not my fault if burningburningburning. Steaming flesh, hissing teeth, scalding tongue. Their tongues lapped at my tears, replacing them with bloodied spit.

Gnarled fingers reached for my throat. My fingers. They wrenched and wrangled, choking out the tears. The absence of perspiration triggered shiverings. I huddled into a ball, hands clawing at my face, searching for something, something. There was music in the night, in the rain, in the creaks, in the spasms of my limbs. I remembered a ball, a musical ball. Bright colors and dazzling gems, my little one drenched in smothering silks, swaying in time with the music. A band had played. A band was searching, men looking everywhere. They wouldn't find me. Not now. Not now. Her head was in my lap, her lips curled up, her beautiful tongue poking out. She stared into me and I stared back, rocking rocking, red tears, unshed, outlining her eyes.

Her gown had been scarlet, outlined with black. It had glowed, she had glistened with sweat. Together they had illuminated the whole hall. My lap was empty. I cradled my arms with my head, swung my legs. My neck was bent backwards, my eyes roaming the cottage. I had found it at a good price, got it for free. Payed the owner in a discreet alleyway. His pocket gave me the key, thanked me for the good offer. I had ran. My legs had pumped, muscles convulsing as I staggered to the door. Everything had had to be ready. My eyes screwed shut. It had been. I made it just in time, ripping a man's smile off his face and glueing it onto mine. No. Not so. Had taken back my smile. He stole it from me. My fingers gripped tight, locked onto the armrests. I rocked harder.

It was my face, his face, the face that belonged to me. He had – he had stripped it off my carcass. But I got it back, oh yes. I rocked harder. The chair was groaning. He had groaned as well. The room was a blur, my head was spinning, I felt something snapping in my stomach. My face hurt. The wet parapet was hugging my cheek. I tried to get up, but it wouldn't let go. My empty palms smacked it, told it to let me be. I stayed down. My eyes flew open.

She looked at me, my baby girl. Just turned thirteen. My little angel. It started raining again. She was in her red gown again. Her eyes were opened wide. Splatsplatsplat. Her gown was leaking. It was flooding her face. Her blue eyes, soaked up the red dye, becoming the devil's. My face twisted itself into a scream, my fingers hammered at the floor. Pounding, pounding on the door. Big droplets this time, with gruff voices that buzzed and whirred. She stared at me, mouth agape, mouthing a single word: Dad. My lips quivered, I bit down on them until my teeth met. Warmth infused my mouth. Hard pounding. They had no right. They had no right. They had no right. They had n –

A crash, the wind swept in. The night's music halted and crumbled onto me, I crumbled onto it. Her gown was all over the floor. My fingers sought to contain it, return it to her. She looked so pretty. Heavy shouts, heavy foot falls, heavy hits on my back. They had no right. She was mine. They had no right.

”They have no right! They have no right! Mine, she's mine!” I screamed, my fingers locking into her beautiful auburn curls. ”They have no right!”

She looked up and spoke a single word.

”No,” she said and she drifted away, the parapet lengthening between us, her curls in my fist, unknown men huddling around her.

"No right," I whimpered.

The door slammed shut, the wind howled, a crack rebounded, my head fell limp. Limp as her soft hands. Limp as –