The Red of the Writing

One | Rani

Blood drenches my palms.

It's still wet; I can feel trickles of it running down my wrists, bits of it seeping into the creases of my hands, making itself at home under my nails.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to forget.

In. Taking a deep breath, I allow the grassy, slightly sweet scent of hay, which mingles with the earthy scent of mud, to fill my nose. Out.

When I open my eyes, there's no blood on my hands. The scents of the barn are gone, replaced by the faint scent of lavender from the recently-washed sheets.

My hands tremble as I wipe them on my nightgown, trying to erase the feeling of the nonexistent blood beginning to dry on my palms.

Shouting, a door flying open, running-

I shudder. No. I can't afford to think about that. I've spent far too much time moping already.

Abruptly, the door to my bedroom bursts open.

I scramble to pull the comforter up to my neck. Yeah, I'm wearing my nightgown, but... still. The person in front of me shouldn't even be seeing me in that.

"Morning, Princess." Jareth flashes me a crooked, partially-toothless leer, muddy brown eyes drifting down to the blanket pulled up to my neck, looking rather disappointed at its presence. I scowl. Perv.

"I told you not to call me Princess." My warning is sharp, in a way I never would have imagined speaking to someone two years ago.

But too much has happened for me to be the same person I was two years ago.

His eyebrows lift, that creepy grin still on his face. "What're you going to do about it, Princess? Punch me?" He taunts.

Perhaps I should stab you, instead.

But I keep my mouth shut. Like it or not, I can't risk angering him.

His disgusting smile grows wider in victory. "That's right, Princess. Remember who's responsible for that bed and your clothes."

I grit my teeth. That, right there, is the root of my problem. Somehow, Jareth's mother - my employer - is convinced that her lovely, darling son can do no wrong. And I need this job. If I tick him off, I'm as good as dead.

But even with the voice of rationality whispering in my head, my hand itches to make use of the knife tucked under my pillow. Truthfully, I don't know how to use it - in my old life, there was no reason to know, and I've had nobody to teach me ever since I began my new one. But aiming and driving it into someone's flesh can't be that hard, right?

Gods, what would Mom and Dad think of me now?

The unexpected thought sends a wave of guilt through me. My parents were firm believers of nonviolence, the kind of people who would do nearly anything to avoid war. What would they say, if they could hear the very violent thoughts running through my head?

But it also brings a fresh ripple of grief. Because I'll never know what my parents think of me. Never again.

For once, I'm thankful when Jareth starts talking again. His voice pulls me out of the start of another spiral, one I don't have time for. "Anyways, you have ten minutes to get into the fields, or you'll get your pay docked. Five mirra less." This time, his grin is mocking. "And I don't think your purse can afford that hit, can it, Princess?"

I clench my jaw tighter. I take that back. He should have kept his mouth shut.

I hate that he's actually right.

With a final smirk, Jareth saunters out of my small room. As soon as he's out, I throw off the blanket and rush to the door. I slam it shut, turning the lock for good measure. Not that it will do much good if Jareth or his mother, Cateline, want to get in, since they have master keys. But at least it would delay them.

It takes me less than a minute to dress; that's one thing I like about simple working gowns. They're practical, but not pretty, and that's fine with me. I'm not here to look pretty, anyways.

Quickly, I unlock the door, step out of my room, and head down to the kitchen, where I grab the meager two pieces of toast set out for each worker. It isn't much, but I'll take what I can get. Then, starting on my first piece of toast, I head for the door.

Once I'm outside, I stop, tilting my face towards the rising sun. A gentle breeze brushes my cheeks, like it's saying hello, carrying the earthy scent of the fields with it.

If there's one good thing that's come out of this mess, it's this. Getting to see so much of my country. Ayera is more beautiful than I had ever realized.

Taking a deep breath, I square my shoulders, lifting my chin up, just like my parents taught me to. Walk with pride, Rani. Don't let others diminish you.

And walk with pride, I would. Because I still have a job to do, and I won't let even Rewera, the demoness herself, stop me.

* * * * *

Current word count: 845

A/N: First author's note of the story! I'm going to try not to talk so much in these, going forwards. Let's just start with a a few questions, because I'd like to know who (if anybody) is reading this:

1. What's your name? (I'm Heetal, nice to meet you!)

2. What country are you from? 

3. Are you participating in ONC 2023 too?

Wherever you are, I hope you're having an incredible day! Well, bye!