Bit Into Your Love {SAPPHIC}

🩸Chasing the Light (pt.1)🩸

(A/N just saying, it gets steamy pretty quickly)

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐨 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬 indicated nighttime, the trees swayed in the gentle breeze under the moon. I trudged through the dark wood, unaware of the dangers lurking deeper inside. Mother would be mad I was out this late.

I heard owls hooting out in the unlit forest, I was not being cautious; to me, nothing was out there. But to them, I was the perfect target. And I didn't even realize it.

I stepped foot in the doorway of my home, it was a cabin, it always smelled of wood and fresh pine. The inside used to be warm and ready with home cooked meals, unfortunately, not anymore.

"Marine!" Mother cried, "Where have you been?"
I sighed, "It's really not that big of a deal, Mother, I promise you."
"Young lady, it's 9 o'clock! There are dangers beyond those trees!"

I sat my bag down on the kitchen counter and shot her a pulsing glare, "If it were so dangerous I'm sure you would tell me what was out there."

She glared back and wouldn't let go.

"Or I suppose I'll find out myself?" My English accent cut through the irritated words.

The more angry I was the stronger it became. I'd gotten it from her.

"Go to your room! Stay there until you learn your damn lesson!"

I didn't care. I slunk up the stairs not daring to say another word, at least to her face; I muttered about her the entire way up. I was sent to my room all of the time, I was simply only surprised she wasn't drunk again.

Maybe I didn't care, because it was nice to know that somewhere in her cold heart she still cared. Or maybe it was because this wasn't new, I was sent to my room everyday but she never remembered it, being too flat out drunk.

It was like living in an icy time loop.

I changed into my pajamas, the pink fabrics glided effortlessly over my body. Being in my bed had to be more comfortable than being downstairs with my grieving, alcoholic mother.

Last year, my younger sister died from a car crash late at night. My father was always out at work, my mother drank all day to cope with the burdening sorrow, and I just pretended everything was fine. All the time, everything was fine. Marionette was seven years old when she died, seven fucking years. From a car crash. Imbeciles on the road.

My parents got out alive, but Marionette was long gone.

I didn't know if Father really cared, if he was just out to get away from us. If he was away from us, perhaps he could forget about the dark memory of my sister inside of these walls. He was a police officer, making good money; maybe he just really needed to work. But he'd been taking extra hours, the night shift even, so I didn't think so.

As lay down I thought about all of it, it didn't make sense in my tiny brain. I needed to rest to process it all. Like I did every night, because no matter how much time passed, it always felt surreal.

But the memory of my sister haunted me and made it difficult to fall asleep.

It was 9 o'clock, if Marionette had been alive, at this time she would have crawled into my bed asking me to read her a bedtime story. We would always sneak downstairs to get cookies and milk, before I'd kiss her forehead and she would go to sleep.

I tossed and turned, not able to find a good sleeping position, before I heard a sharp, loud bang from outside.

Unaware of what it was, I nervously got up, panicking more with each new step. Looking out my bedroom window, everything outside looked untouched.