Belladonna

The dark towers of the forest were silhouetted against the lighter sky as she ran, dodging trees as big around as her father's truck, as tall as the skyscrapers in her old hometown. She ran easily and fast; the trees had shaded the forest floor so nothing could grow but giant boulders, and pale mushrooms as tall as a man. On and on she ran, her long black hair tumbling around her legs, her deep blue eyes alive with fear.
And as she ran, the shadows chased her; of her own making, they could do no less, goblins and ghouls, witches and haunts, shaped from the night and her fear. What did she fear? not her own death. She would never fear this, and she gambled with her life often enough to know it. Her fixation with death was absolute. As a child she had played with it, lovingly running knives across her flesh. The tiny blades she had made herself were pencil thin and brought death with a touch, killers at her command. But they couldn't cut shadows, and that was what she ran from, a dark secret, a terrible memory, a twist of fate, a bloody blade, and the stricken face that she could never, ever forget, one word playing over and over to the drumming beat of her footsteps: murdurer, murdurer, murdurer...
And as she ran, the men chased her. Big, strong men with hearts and hands of cold steel, their souls as black as the ill-fitting stealth suits they wore, their minds only large enough to hold one task. These were the men that tracked her, these were the men that caught her, too many for her, since she would not, could not use the knives; and they caught her and held her between them, helpless, but struggling as strongly as she could, biting and kicking and pulling at them desperately until one of them came up from behind and struck her a devastating blow to the head. cold steel crashed against her temple, and she crumpled into blackness. She woke up in a cell. Bare stone walls. Thick cell door with a barred window opening out into the moonlit night. That was too cruel. Then she remembered the one thing, the one precaution she took before she ran. With shaking hands, she reached up and unclipped the brace that held her smallest, poisoned blade to the roof of her mouth. She pulled it out slowly, carefully, knowing one tiny cut would end her. Finally the blade was in her hand. She held her breath and jiggled it in the lock. five minutes later, she was out, smiling, embracing the brilliant night. She reached in, through the barred window, to retrieve the knife that had saved her. With a sharp gasp she pulled her hand back, staring wide-eyed at the blood on her fingers. They found her the next morning, curled up outside the open cell door, free but no longer living, and the golden morning sun shone on white cheeks, red lips, and a crimson blade.