Puppets and Their Strings

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Huh. It's raining.

A searing pain.

A blinding flash of white light.

Nothing.

Images.

Images are how we percieve the world around us.

We smell, we hear, we touch.

But we see with all of them.

Our eyes, our fingers, our ears capture images and send them twisting to the brain as a bundle of electrical and chemical impulses that are formed into images.

Feelings. Thoughts.

Purple eyes saw a scared girl.

Purple eyes saw a floor slick with rain and blood, saw teardrops brimming in the other.

Purple eyes saw a grey mask fall away, saw two words.

Purple eyes cried.

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Golden eyes saw blood.

Golden eyes saw suffering, and pain, and death.

Golden eyes never blinked.

But golden eyes saw purple.

Golden eyes saw truth.

Golden eyes blinked.

Golden eyes saw a choice.

Golden eyes saw a hand reaching out, too late.

Golden eyes closed.

A small shape was huddled in the grass, unmoving.

A figure.

A figure whose hood had fallen and whose mask was askew.

The rain fell.

Hair fanned out around her head, a black halo for the angel of death, soaking.

Two figures.

One lay where she had fallen.

One wept, covering her in a halved towel soaked in red.

A hand touched a once-tanned face gone pale, cold and brittle like glass.

A breath washed over their arm, and they jumped.

Gentle hands laid Vera down, freed her of her soaked clothes.

Gentle hands brushed back black hair.

Gentle hands laid her to rest.

A/N: Well, I'm back for now... I'll try to release on weekends now because I'm working over the week Q~Q Anyways, here's a bit of poetic prophecy (that's the best kind) to serve as an intro to the rest of the story:

"The one in black rarely spoke,

save to utter threat and tease;

But never thought that with no words,

she'd bring silence to its knees."

Big things planned! Can't wait to share 'em with ya! ~V

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