Short Story · Writing

She: A Short Story

“Take my hand, little one,” she said to me. Her pearl white hand reached through the glom to pull me up. My skin tingled at the touch of hers. It was icy and hardened like stone. “Are you an Angel?” I called out to her, “Have you come to save me?” I tried to make out her face, but it was too dark, and the fog was too thick. Her silkened voice echoed against the trees, “I’m no Angel, mon cher, and though I cannot save you, I have come to help.”

I felt myself being raised out of the darkened well, it was so effortless and smooth, that I felt like I was flying. When my feet came to rest on the ground, I felt her hand slip from mine. “But who are you?” I reached out, feeling my way through the dark. “Who is it that has saved me from my prison? Who is the maiden that has stopped the haste of my impending death?”

I saw her green eyes flash in the haze. She came closer into view. Her dark hair shone against the whiteness of her alabaster skin. Her lips, blood-red, spread into a smile. A row of blindingly white, razor sharp teeth stretched before me. “My darling, I’m no savior. I was just hungry.”

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