Death sat cross-legged on the carpet, watching warm, blood-red velvet curtains live and die with the breeze. Appear. Vanish. Appear. Vanish. Like mortals! They live in a heartbeat...!
She rose to her feet. She was an unfinished-looking woman-- being so thin the bones appeared glued to her skin. She resembled a Victorian widow, yet her jet-black corset was comically-altered, with a ruffled bustle and a waist that melted like an icicle.
Greasy black curls piled atop her head, writhing like leeches. In fact, her hairstyle was so heavy that her head tipped backward. This provided an extensive view of her knifepoint chin and full red lips, while they forgot her hawkish nose and bulging black eyes. Muddy blush inhabited the caves called cheeks, sometimes traveling to her napkin-ring wrists and hands. She twirled her hair. Smirked. No mortal deserves my beauty.
Parasol in hand, Death strutted with fearless eyes and spear-straight posture. A jagged pile of pale-pink flowers fainted at her sides, their green-black stalks succumbing to eternal injury. She pinched the flap of skin between her finger and thumb. They wilted into dust. Time chuckled, but dared not speak.
Something lurked behind her, creaking on its own-- dry, helpless croaks.
Death whirled around, heart thundering in her ears. The scythe! It was more menacing than she remembered, about five feet long and as broad as a mortal's pinky-finger. Yet something seemed blurry. Forgotten. Unknown. The thin silver blade sparkled faintly, like pale moonlight rippling in the soft blackness of a lake.
"G-Grandmother's scythe!" she gasped, "I-I can't use...this!"
"It'll be Ambrose's soon enough. You should use it while you can. And you know...." Fate raised chunky golden brows. "They say it grants courage to its holderrrr."
YOU ARE READING
Horror Writing Prompt(s)
HorrorWell, it's not overtly frightening, but I think this has potential...
