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With death as my guardian

Short story By: BrielleMorez

With death as my guardian prologue idea

Submitted:Nov 9, 2011    Reads: 14    Comments: 4    Likes: 2   

Through the trees and over tops, my eyes search for the thing that follows me. To the moon I look, for it's face could be the surface staring, shining upon. I look for its enormous silver eyes, which would be the first thing I see if it lingers nearby. The wind has disappeared, for the thing absorbs it to move.
It likes to find me alone, usually in the solitude of my room. Staring over my shoulder as I do my homework, with long black nails pointing at the letters, numbers and symbols as if foreign. Blood shot pupils trail behind as I move throughout the room, every motion carefully analyzed. It tells me stories, as I lay in bed. Stories in a tongue that I cannot understand. Its voice, hits a note of anger that quickly turns to sadness then to emotions that I once did not know existed. Sometimes it sits on the foot of the mattress, in deep thought as its teeth bite into the flesh of its bottom lip, even after red runs down its chin.
Now, as I wander though the forest it is nowhere to be found, yet I sense it's presence. It's long ripped velvet wing, I swear I see from the corner of my eye.
"Rue" I call out silently, the name that I have given the creature years ago. Only Silence answers.
"Why have you been following me around like this?" I ask casually, even though I know it has little knowledge of the words I speak. "Go home." It knows what that means, but yet remains.
"You know how pissed I am at you?"
We reach the clearing, and I lay my lightly packed bag down on the tree stump. The ground beside it makes a hard thump as my exhausted body collapses onto its grimy damp soil. It smudges the side of my face but I couldn't care less. I lay there unmoving, Waiting…but for what? Perhaps for the wind to carry me away in the useless bits and pieces that I am.
Rue fidgets with the chains and knick-knacks on my backpack, like it does with everything else. It likes one in particular. A simple miniature star that's edges are too pointed, pricking you every times its touched. Rue's fingers bleed from handling it, and pulls the hurt hand back quickly.
"Dumbass." I murmur.
To an onlooker it would have appeared as though my upper body levitated off the dirt as the thing pulls me into a sitting position. Its nails brush the overly long hair from my face, leaving small drops of blood. I do not see the point in getting it cut, or even agonize over the cuts left on my forehead, if the brown knots are just going to grow out again.
"Go home, Rue."

Soon I will hopefully be dead.


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