The lonely woman swept through dark corridors, her long, thin ebony hair, a cascade of satin blanket, as her long, frail fingers crept to coil about the brittle, chipped beam of the classroom door. She peeked her head ‘round corner, where she saw him, his posture rising to straighten after having burried his strong nose within the finest of white lines
She couldn’t help but slink silently, as she often would, now standing behind him with what appeared to be a smirk, spread with amusement. However, this time, she couldn’t place a finger as to whether she was lustful, or just wanted complication.
You were never this sour, never this hateful. I remember a time, long ago, when the smile spread across your thin lips, that always carried that lush stain of Russian red, did not spoil and wither itself into that malicious, double-crossing smirk that now seems to sit so perminantly against your mouth. The way your neck occasionally dips to the side, as if being irritated constantly, and just by simple things, like small questions and words.
Moscow was colder back then I understand, leaving you with not much of an oportunity to prove yourself, however you always were stubborn, and willing to prove those who stood against you, wrong. Especially your brothers. You were the runt of the litter, so to speak, but your mother’s encouragement always managed to keep you at sail; striving to be nothing but successful. Striving to have a place in Mother Russia that mattered.
to be continued…..