Post by Citrine Bailey on May 20, 2008 0:28:04 GMT
Citrine had a faded smile on her face as she approached the edge of the old bridge. The sun was finally set, and she pulled herself from the dark corner in which she previously sat. It had been somewhat of a hot day, and the sun was slightly more torturous than usual. Citrine hated the time of sunset. Whilst most found it romantic and aesthetic, Citrine found it to be a headache, a burning sensation with which she couldn't cope. It might have been her mere vampire weaknesses, but it never kicked in until sunset. There, perhaps, was something about how close it was to the horizon. It was the one time when, if you looked straight ahead, it was there looking back at her.
The red sun's return reminded her of Africa, her reason for being on the bridge that day. It had been, maybe, five years since she had stayed. It, too, was beautiful, and she found herself there longer than usual. It was far off her beaten path, but then she only stayed due to the wildlife, the red sun, and the one beautiful Hawthorne family.
She had visited often, delivering sweets and gifts to the young son, an only child, and lonely at that. Nathaniel Hawthorne, and they had found each other again. Citrine had received word of his arrival and had arranged a meeting. It could have been strange, for they had both grown, the boy especially. He was a young lad then, and now, almost a man. It would be lovely, however the situation ended.
Citrine rested her elbows against the cold metal, emerald eyes focused on the moon, red hair the color of shimmering crimson in the night. She wore a thin, long sleeved dress that lay lightly over her body to her knees. It tied and hugged her chest, while the remains of the dress were lightweight. It resembled the clothing of India, a country which Citrine and Nathan shared a love for.
She lifted her hand and let her chin rest on her palm, still eying the full gray moon in contrast to the black sky. She hummed a song of Africa, a lullaby.
The red sun's return reminded her of Africa, her reason for being on the bridge that day. It had been, maybe, five years since she had stayed. It, too, was beautiful, and she found herself there longer than usual. It was far off her beaten path, but then she only stayed due to the wildlife, the red sun, and the one beautiful Hawthorne family.
She had visited often, delivering sweets and gifts to the young son, an only child, and lonely at that. Nathaniel Hawthorne, and they had found each other again. Citrine had received word of his arrival and had arranged a meeting. It could have been strange, for they had both grown, the boy especially. He was a young lad then, and now, almost a man. It would be lovely, however the situation ended.
Citrine rested her elbows against the cold metal, emerald eyes focused on the moon, red hair the color of shimmering crimson in the night. She wore a thin, long sleeved dress that lay lightly over her body to her knees. It tied and hugged her chest, while the remains of the dress were lightweight. It resembled the clothing of India, a country which Citrine and Nathan shared a love for.
She lifted her hand and let her chin rest on her palm, still eying the full gray moon in contrast to the black sky. She hummed a song of Africa, a lullaby.
