Offerings

"Who are you?" My bones were trembling and I felt exposed. I hadn't drank the vial yet. I was in my purest form. I was a skeleton. The man was not a man although his appearance could trick one into believing so. Those bright blue eyes held specks of divinity. He pressed a finger to his lips and disappeared within the shadows, without another word only a devious smirk to linger in my horrors. I wondered who he might've been and what power he possesses to free me a month early.

But I knew what I must do. I popped the vial containing True Love's blood and swallowed it whole. In a way, I was a serpent. When the calender marks November first, my skin molds on my bones the way a snake's scales chip. True Love's Blood never fails to astound me of it's power. This salty substance has power to form skin on bones. I pinched my tender flesh to reassure myself I wasn't dreaming. I smiled to myself, completing the first stage of my fall ritual.

The orange leaves were dead, but beautiful. Their rustling corpses danced in the cool autumn air, spiraling aimlessly around an invisible gyre. Autumn never buried her leaves, she buried the world. Homes with cinnamon lit candles illuminating glossy windows carried avalanches of geranium leaves. Autumn has manners. One should never forget how she veils the sidewalk's salient cracks. And the rickety fences suddenly seemed a more creamy white than the worn out yellow it is in the summer; the bottom of their eroding planks dug deep into earth's soil. Rakes wrestled with the rising population of fallen leaves but nature can't be tamed. A fool would think he could.

Autumn welcomed all those whom have candles in their hearts deep in her forests where the branches rattled and ripples kissed her frosty streams. "I've come with gifts." I whisper in a breath that travels swiftly into the breeze. I hadn't seen my pale arms since last November. You can't see much down below, where darkness is your only company. For a moment, I'm entranced by my skin. It appears like an ivory cream that has been out for too long without a lid. The barely visible hairs strike up from the exposure of earth. My bronze eyes flicker down into my sewn pouch, coloured needles sticking out from the worn out patches. I caress the fruit with my surprisingly soft palms, the crisp texture of an apple watering my mouth. It must taste sweet and tangy. I imagined the taste of apple cider and apple sauce brushing along my thirsty tongue as my nails nearly dug through the apple's crust. Cinnamon's ghost scraped down my taste buds and my stomach growled hungrily. No. Not another year underground.

The fruit tumbled delicately out of my reach and down the well's stones. Beneath the rusty pebbles embellishing stones of all sizes, gravity sank those treats lower down. Three point two seconds, then a loud splash! Billows of the sparkling water reflected deep into my copper hues. One, two, three, four, five, six, six and a half, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.

Thirteen ripples. Thirteeen disturbances found within nature's glowing heart. Beautiful, isn't it?

"HELP!" The bloodcurdling scream shattered my bones into two and froze my blood. This throat splintering wail echoed and beat my eardrums alarmingly at first and then, the terrifying screech simmered down into a moan. Quieter and quieter until I could hear only it's lingering phantom crackling the rotting leaves. Some part of me instructed me to run, but that survival instinct shouldn't apply in a world I'm immortal.

I ran.

Her voice taunted me from all directions of the forest and when I thought I was near, I realised it is only twigs dying beneath my stomping shoes. Left, right, zig zag.

Blood isn't foreign to me so when its' sharp fragrance pierced my cherry blushing nose, I followed absentmindly. Darkness is perfumed in blood. I've become so accustomed to this salty odor, fresh air seems polluted in comparison. Drip, drip. I blinked to assure myself the scene before me isn't a hallucination seeping out of the sinister air ducts of my mind. Was this all imagined? Have I been underground all this time and only illusioned myself into escaping? It's real, it must be. The leaves are orange! The leaves are orange. Real. In every tormenting nightmare, the leaves were always a dark green.

Autumn kind yet cordially greedy, was hungry for more orange and red. Art or murder? The tortured woman was in an unnatural pose, her thin bones spiking out of her wounded spine. It wasn't December. Otherwise, she'd be the perfect gift for moon worshipping beasts. Her wrists are flaming red underneath the thick rope binding them behind her back along with her ankles. Perfectly tied as I said, a gift. I took a step, another twig snapped. More blood oozed from her open stomach, crystal beads of blood running down her paled torso. Her precious blood stained nature's leaves. More death. Death painting death. Didn't I tell you it was art?

I cupped her rosy structured head in the heart of my palms and smiled warmly at her blank eyes. Like worms, my nails dug into her tender skull, scraping away her effete melting skin. I expected to discover a brain full of wonders but there wasn't an ounce of imagination left, only various beetles nipping at her head.

Plucking the burnished beetles from their feast, I devoured each one whole. Crunch, crunch. Their shells were a favourite but if you wanted to taste the real juice, your pearly teeth must dig a little deeper. Though my stomach desired those crispy apples, beetles will suffice for now. Their indigo juice smeared across my nacreous teeth. "llegado." My decree fluttered her short lashes open and the last vestiges of brown thawed into silver.

Rebirth. "Cynthia. Your redeemed title is Cynthia. Who took the last bits of your humanity and turned you into this beast?" My nose rudely scrunched. I remembered a time where wolves ripped my skin apart, chewing on my flesh whilst I was conscious. Hallucination. This is real. Orange, orange, orange.

Her head slowly rose where before it draped lowly. "My husband." Her words growled more than said. An armor of vengeful steel sheathed her feeble arms and suddenly, she carried moons in her arms. Mercilessly, her fists freely pounded down until the ropes once upon a time trapping her became her weapons. "My name is Cynthia. But it should not matter if my name is Delia or Maria or Kosma or B***h. Know that I am coming for you, my dear husband, I am coming for you. I will bite you the way you have bitten me. Except my teeth will not leave your flesh until you are dust in my mouth. I am Cynthia. Moon keeper." She sank to her ashy knees, down a puddle of her own putrid blood where she bowed her allegiance.

The next day, she brought me what was left of her dear husband. A skull and the long bone of a femur. She fitted the skull as a hat on her head and sharpened the long bone into a weapon. She will kill with what has killed her past life.

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