STORY STARTER
That old lady always wears a red scarflette around her wrist, today we found out why…
Red
That old lady
Hair white
Like snow
Eyes green
Like grass
Wears all black
Long flowing black skirts
Black collated skirts with ruffles
Black nail polish
Black lipstick
All black
Contrast against her deathly pale skin
Like burnt ashes
Sickly
Unnerving
High and sharp cheekbones
Hollow
Like she doesn’t eat enough
Her frame thin
Skinny
Lank
Like she starves
Maybe she does
Her house
Filled with burgundy roses
Deep red
Like wine
Like the wine she drinks every night
Deep red wine
Sometimes she asks others to drink
In silence
Others
Mostly
She drinks alone
In her room
Without a word
She’s mad
Or maybe a bit sad
Both could be true
All at once
She makes outrageous demands
Others despise her
But
Maybe
She despises herself more
The things she’s done
Blood drips
Onto the furniture
Maybe that’s why there are no longer white chairs
Or couches
Or even bedding
To hide it
To hide what she does
To herself
She always frowns
With disdain
Or maybe not
Her eyes are lidded
Like she’s looking down
On others perhaps
Or because she can’t bare to meet others eyes
Maybe it’s regret
Maybe something else
Who knows
In the end
Maybe even she doesn’t
That little scarf
The only color
Red
Like blood
Like wine
Like roses
Contrasts against her skin
And the clothing she wears
Every day
She wears it every day
Even in her sleep
Makes you wonder
Why
January 12th
She leaves
Her house
Every year
She leaves
To the graveyard
And cries
And cries
And cries
Burgundy roses in hand
Then on the grave
She dabs her eyes
With a little black handkerchief
Then leaves
And drinks again
All alone
In her room
She doesn’t speak
To anyone
No friends
No family
Only self loathing
Complete isolation
Only maids
And butlers
Whom she refuses to interact
All except one
A young butler
He looks kind of like
That man in the image she always carries
Who is that
No one knows
Maybe a friend
Maybe family
Maybe a lover
Who knows
She does
She speaks to the image
Ever so often
When she thinks no one is watching
That little red scarf
On her wrist
Covers up scars
From what
From herself
She hates herself
It’s evident
The little red scarf
Is it naturally red
Or
Is it from something else
August 3rd
She sings happy birthday
But not for herself
For who
Her birthday is long gone
She refuses to celebrate
August 3rd
She visits the grave every year
And leaves a box
A little box
Wrapped in red
The next day
She goes back
And when she sees it’s gone
She seems fufilled
Doesn’t she realize
It’s a theif
Dead in the night
Maybe
But still
She holds out hope
She refuses to go near the ocean
Despite living on the beach
It scares her
Like she sees a ghost
Maybe she does
How could anyone know
What she is going through
And what is haunting her
Sometimes
She wakes up
And reaches out screaming
She says
That sometimes
She feels like she’s drowning
Then mutters about
How she should have
Like she feels guilty
Maybe
Maybe she does
Maybe that’s why she won’t go to the ocean
The old lady is senile
She’s losing her ability to speak
To remember
But sometimes
She sobs silently
Into her pillow
During the night
Some days
She can’t speak
Her eyes gloss over
Glassy
Unalert
Other times
She looks into the sky
Like she’s haunted by something
Like she’s scared
Sometimes
She prays
Before bed
And asks for death
She did it
She took too many pain killers
On purpose
Then laid down
And went to sleep
And never woke up
Next to her bed
Was a note
That said
To give all of her money
To children’s hospitals
For her son
Who she could not save
She decided
That with her fortune
She would save
Other peoples children
So they could be happy
At her funeral
There was someone
Her sister
Who told a speech
About her
Said
That the ladies child
Her son
Died
On the beach
Trying to save a little girl
From a shark attack
And both of them died
The lady
She tried to stop him
From going out and helping the girl
But he wouldn’t listen
And the lady
Feels forever guilty
For not saving her son
All that was left
Was his hand
Where he wore a little white scarf
That his dad gave him
Before he died
The little white scarf
Became red
Stained with his blood
Red was his favorite color
And it was the old lady’s
She never forgave herself
For what happened
But no matter what
I hope her soul rests in peace
And is reunited with her son