Hades was fuming, and you could see how mad he was as he paced down the hallways angrily. He still hadn't accepted the fact that he had let that little girl go all those years ago. That cute, small, pouty-lipped little girl he had the teeniest bit of a soft spot for. He had decided after years and years of thinking that he only let her go because she was small and cute.
Hades was not weak. Hades does not care. Hades is fierce and powerful, and nothing will ever change that!
He stopped, running a finger through his long black hair; it was so black it was almost smoke. He was still in the clothes he wore the first time he met her, and he intended to bring her back. Back to where she rightfully belonged. He had waited thirteen agonising years trying to find out if he did in fact have a heart.
He couldn't get the cute little girl out of his head. She had the rosiest cheeks he had ever seen; the pinkest lips; and the most adorable bunches in when he came to take her down to where the rest of the dead people lived. Every night he hoped that by the time he came up to take her back to the place she had supposed to have been for the last thirteen years that she would be an ugly, worthless disgusting creature.
But knowing the small, fragile little girl with the bunches... She would not be.
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Elle skipped along the road cheerfully. Her big brown eyes widened when she saw a stray red balloon on her front porch, tied to the door handle.
She unplugged her MP3 player in a haste and ran up to her door. Her heart started beating faster and faster and faster. It couldn't be.
Elle had suffered a rough childhood, every Monday she would go for her weekly counseling sessions, and every week she swore that there was a man with black hair, striped breeches and an angry frown. She swore there was a man who tried to take her away. She told them what happened, and she never ever left a single detail out.
But who would believe a small four year old child with a big imagination?
No one: Not her mother or her father or her counsellor or her psychiatrist.
And that was precisely the reason why she unfastened the balloon that was wrapped around her door handle and let it float back up into the sky. She would not go back to those sessions. She couldn't, and she wouldn't. She would not have her mother stare at her worriedly, as if she had a mental disease. At the young age of ten, Elle had decided that it wasn't worth fighting for. She confirmed that it must have been a dream, and she forgot about it. And then she spent the next seven years of her life happily, and not in any regret whatsoever. She was finally at peace.
Well, until that red balloon made an appearance.
________________________________________________
"Prepare my carriage!" Hades ordered, sending the scared little shadow away. "I need that girl!" Hades growled, glaring at anyone in his line of vision. He was official losing his mind.
He was doing the right thing, and he knew that. He was doing what he had to do. It was his job to take people down to the underworld, and he loved it. He honestly did.
So why did it feel so wrong? Why did it feel as though he was commiting the biggest crime ever, and why did he actually feel guilty about it? Hades shook his thoughts away, taking a swig of wine from his bottle. He refused to give in, no one did this to Hades. And if they did, they would die. Twice...
Hades furrowed his eyebrows, wondering if the sweet little girl had gotten his warning balloon. Knowing his frightened little minions, she had. He threw the bottle of wine into the wall in a rage, his mind was zigzagging all over the place, and he was not happy with it. Hades would take deep breaths to calm himself down, but he had no lungs to breathe from. He 'breathed' in his poison, and if he didn't, he would die. Simple.
He walked calmly to where the carriage was just pulling up, taking his cane and a single red balloon, before twirling it around his fingers playfully.
It was time for that little girl to come home.
ВИ ЧИТАЄТЕ
Mini Stories and One Shots
Короткі історії“I think all writing is a disease. You can’t stop it.”—William Carlos Williams. So I write things sometimes; have a guess where they go.
