don't. wake. up. / crimson + annabelle

The morning before the Reaping, I checked in an ill woman. She told me she was not afraid of death- that she was a widow, and that her husband was waiting for her. She told me she could feel it. She told me death was gentle.

I didn't believe her, until she drew her final breath later in the day and I could not bear to believe anything but. She was a gentle soul- may she rest in peace.

I butchered her body, still warm with the life, with an unsteady knife.

There was no family to give the body to, anyway.

It is quiet here, and it is haunting, like an omen burned into the sky. Celia. Her name haunts this house, this hospital. I hold a teacup in my hand and try to forget. I try to savor the warmth of the tea against my tongue, try to soak in every bit of flavor from the tang of herbs bled into the drink.

My eyes avert to the figure in the doorway, and I speak before I know who I am speaking to.

"Would you like tea?" I offer politely, tracing my fingers along the painted design of pink flowers branching out like bony fingers across the porcelain tea spout. They tremble.