My borrowed face and my third-hand grace only reflect your glory

She doesn’t remember being found by Horatio Walker, not with any sort of coherency. The days before, the days after…there isn’t detail enough to form even a partial memory, but the day she was found is different.

She doesn’t remember anything but the color red.

It’s everywhere, in everything…the fabric of a shirt, the viscous wetness soaking her clothes and skin, the blood singing in her veins and tinting her vision with pure animal fury. There was nothing left of the nice girl from Boston, just a beast running on pure adrenaline.

There were harsh periods of light when she woke and splashes of dark when she slept, noise and confusion in the moment between between. There was food when she was hungry…red and warm, meat that still tasted of fresh blood and a fresh kill…and there was red warmth, safety and comfort in the worn, faded red duvet that she still keeps on her bed to this day.

There are no distinct memories, just knives of sensory assault slicing through her mind whenever she tries to recall that day, stark swatches of light, dark, dizzying shades of red. Before and after the blades grow fuzzy and dim until she gets to her life before the loss of her family and her rebirth into a brand new one.

It doesn’t bother her too much…it’s normal in its own way. After all, nobody really remembers the day that they’re born, and if they do? It’s not much more than light and dark and living, screaming red.

Muse: Anne Forsythe
Fandom: Original Character
Words: 255