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01 this is a very old story
Below the rose-tinted hands of the sunrise wrapping their delicate hands over the skyline, there lies Henrietta. And within the twisting streets of Henrietta, stands the last house of Siken Lane. A house that crawls with bleeding strands of ivy intertwining with the porch frame, and cracking, thick white brick that keep the crumbling psyche of the house within tact. Light blue and fractured, the paint of the old pickup truck out front comes off in small flecks. CHEVROLET is spelt out in white lettering, almost hidden by the shadows of the rising sun. The truck sits jaggedly against the white of the cottage-like house; out of place, not right for the prestige of the perfectly constructed home.
"It's just you and me now." Illusion crows sweetly in the ear of Mercy King as she stands in the cottage. "The world is ours."
The auburn-haired teen's hands grip the white windowsill, nails digging into the paint and her knuckles blanching. Her attention is snapped from the sunrise, pulled towards the voice. It is iron, echoing in her ears like a sharp pain. The paint curls under her nails, ripping away from the wood in coils. Her head bows, a tumble of shoulder-length curls falling over her face. Rubbing a finger over her nose, she lets out a heavy breath, choking on the animalistic snarl that violently crawls from her throat.
"This isn't finished, Mercy." The voice cuts through the buzz of her heartbeat pounding. She feels the ghost of a hand trailing against her jawline. "We have so much to do."
Black ichor drops onto the windowsill, staining the cream a dark grey. Drip, drip, drip. Mercy wipes her nose, gazing upon the fluid as it runs down the back of her hand. Her lip quirks. She wipes it on her pyjama pants, swiping the paint curls from the windowsill and slamming the glass closed. A ding cuts through the madness: Mercy's alarm. A frustrated huff compels her chest to rise and fall to the final wave of melody her headphones produce. The flashing number stares at Mercy unblinkingly: 6:15am.
