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A hand reached out, gloves tracing a soft cheek, vibrant red eyes staring back at her from her own face, that soft, menacing smile reflecting her usual bright, excited grin—not that March was her usual self at the moment.
The glove felt sticky—fabric darker in some places, warm and damp.
She could feel a smear of whatever it was on her face.
Aeons, she hoped it’s not blood.
She could feel her hands shaking, brows drawn together, mouth parted as she stared at her doppelganger.
She…she knew her. (She was her. Is her.)
Those dead eyes never took themselves off of her, umbrella in one hand, that creepy, creepy smile looking oh-so-wrong on the face that’s hers-yet-not.
She could still feel the ghost of that hand that’s hers-yet-not, hear the silken voice that’s hers-yet-not, see that grin that’s hers-yet-not.
March backed up a step.
Those dead eyes followed.
And so did her voice, the cadence that’s hers-yet-not, slightly nasal—
“My dear March…”
March backed up another step.
This time, she followed, angling the umbrella so it covered March instead of herself.
The liquid had dried by now, feeling altogether uncomfortable, stretching and cracking on her skin. (It’s red like those eyes, she knows. She knows.)
A hand tapped her lips, smile still tugging them upwards, teeth glinting in the dim light. “What? Don’t recognize me?”
When she took her hand away, there was a small smear of red, red like those eyes, red like the matching one on her face—
She stared at her like she was precious.
She stared at her like she was nothing but a doll.
March scrambled back, eyes wide, hand coming up between them.
She knew her.
She was her.
Is her.
Evernight approached, slow and languid, a predator in every sense, hand coming up again to cup her chin, cradling her face within those stained hands.
She could feel her breaths coming fast, audible to the other—to her self—in a way that only made her hands tremble, desperate to get away, away from those hands that aren’t hers that hold her so softly.
Those red eyes kept staring, unblinking and half-lidded, so far from alive and yet still living.
March never wanted to know what blood on her hands felt like.
(Those aren’t her hands. They aren’t. They’re hers.)
Her legs gave out, a marionette with its strings cut, the hand slipping from her face. Evernight clicked her tongue, standing over her. Keeping watch over her. Watching her.
Those red eyes never looked away from her.
Rubies. Roses. Cherries.
Red. All-consuming red.
Matching smears on matching faces, just as red, blood that matches neither of them.
A hand reached out and cradled her face, that soft smile still in place, umbrella protecting the both of them.
She felt frozen, blue-pink eyes staring, and staring, and staring. Fear thudded in rhythm with her heart, much too strongly, much too fast, swallowing rational thought.
A finger gently tilted her head up, lips curling upwards a tad more as she spoke again, conviction lacing her voice. “Don’t worry…with me here, you won’t lose anything ever again.”
Night will always be there.
Evernight will always be here.
She never hated this color—Himeko was red, her hair vibrant and fiery.
Evernight was red, her eyes dull and bloody.
(She’s nothing like March, who March has become, who March is—)
(She knows her, like the blood thrumming through her veins.)
There’s blood on them both, now, and March couldn’t bring herself to tear her gaze from those red eyes.
Soft lips pressed gently against her forehead—she could feel the smile against her bangs, against her skin, does she ever stop smiling—and all she could do was stare at the ground, feeling oddly disconnected without the forceful eye contact.
Were those red eyes still looking at her?