A manor, its walls taken over by nature and dust is lit by the light of the full moon. Inside the once white walls have yellowed with time, windows dirty and broken, dust coating every fixture in a thick layer of dust. The house empty and devoid of the life it once held, One thing truly stood out. A mirror large and extravagant, not a single bit of dust on it, the glass still bright and smug free. Was shattered, broken, and useless for its original function, it was what behind the object what was odd. It was not the yellowed walls or the wooden frames behind that, It was behind the shattered glass itself.
Behind the sharp, broken pieces of the mirror sat a young woman. She was average in every sense of the word. short, tanned skin, short black hair, silver wire glasses, clad in a white cotton button up shirt, the sleeves rolled up, black slacks, a silver pendant of a crescent moon on its side and simple black low-heeled loafers. Well... she WOULD be if not for the strange features she has. Tan skin having cracks like the mirror on her hands, forearms, neck, and face. The white top having a gunshot wound om the abdomen with a still ever vibrant red on the fabric like it only happened seconds ago, mouth rimmed with blood, and her eyes. Oh god, her eyes white with no color what so ever and cascading endlessly with tears. There she sat in the light of the moon where the mirror let it in like a window as it reflected the foyer, she looked with eyes crinkled with sorrow.
Oh, how she wished she was free. Alas, she had given, tricked was a more appropriate term, her physical form up for her dear friend after she was shot. She remembered the sharp pain of the bullet ripping through her tender flesh, her breaking skull, and neck from the fall. The face full of regret and tears that looked at her form as she fell, her opening up her eyes to see nothing but black then red and blue. Then she opened them again to see the man that shot her jump up to try to explain himself before he lost his mind. The utter HURT and RAGE of being pushed out her own body and seeing the form it took was that of her friend.
Oh, she remembered how she ran to her only, albeit broken, window to the outside world. The scream of her beloved friend's name left her mouth as she banged her fists on the glass and looked him in the eye, and how he looked back with sadness before rage took over and he stormed out without a thought. The years she kept on screaming and hitting the glass until she could no longer. And then she was left with the whispers of the dammed souls used by the manor for even longer than when she was making a racket. The rage deep inside her talking root like a weed and how it infected her, then died as the sands of time passed. Where the weeds of rage left an empty space, a patch of purple hyacinth(1) grew.
She knew she had every RIGHT to be mad, to thirst for blood and revenge, to have them begging on their knees. But she also knew that rage and revenge can only last so long, warp the truth and leave you empty in the aftermath. So as the sun and moon passed, seeing the white wall's age and yellow, the windows break with time. She laid in wait, learned to let go and saw the truth of what happened that night.
That night, that horrid night that haunts her to this very day, she learned that no one was truly at fault. That everyone was bent and twisted to fit into the houses plans. So, she now sits still, eyes now closed. In the light of the moon with a clear heart and mind, and nothing but sorrow and forgiveness.