Beauty by @((Y^!@ Allyvia (good books to read for beginners .TXT) 📖

gleaming in the dull light of the old, rustic chandelier that hung from the cieling. The dark green, plastered walls were covered with everything from those silly china plates to old records from Grandmother's childhood to ancient oil paintings of long-gone relatives with handlebar mustaches and double chins. 

Although crosses hung from almost every wall surface, I still found little chicken bones and gris gris tucked into drawers to ward off evil spirits. Incense always burned, too, which was thick and clung to the fabric of the chairs and coats and drapes.

"Vienna, we have had this discussion before. They would treat us differently, like they should. We aren't like the humans-"

"There is nothing wrong with us! Jesus, you sound just like him," I cried, angrily jumping from my chair and narrowing my eyes. The words slipped from my mouth, much to my dismay, the guilt washing over me before I had even finished the blurted thought. 

Her eyes went downcast, like a child being scolded. I watched in horror and shame as she proceeded to get out of her chair, although the action was slowed. Her limbs moved like they were in a tub of molasses, slow and diliberate, yet shaky. 

"Grandmother-"

"You're going to end up just like her. Remember that, Vienna," she said, as she stood and turned to leave. The light shuffle of her slippers was so loud, in the horrified silence engulfing us. I heard the beads parting, and knew she was already making her way to bed. Alone, I sighed in defeat. Well, that was just peachy.

Bloom

 

I looked into his dark eyes and felt the tug in my chest. Dull, warm, confused tugging. 

"Anna," he whispered, brushing the strands of blond hair out of my eyes, his lips moving against the shell of my ear. His body was close to mine, my fingers curling into his skin in hope of never letting him leave again. Dark hair tickled my neck, the messy mop on his head curling against the nape of his neck, which I earnestly ran my fingers through. 

He was alive. He was back. He was holding me, and my heart was pounding against the walls of my chest in disbelief. 

The swamp water that ate at our sides rippled as my fingers skimmed the top, green mossy algae clinging to my fingers. I was shivering; the water was so cold, despite the muggy heat and cloud of mosquitoes that surrounded us. My lips blue, I stared into those eyes feeling very, very lost. 

"Get away from me. I hate you," I managed through grit teeth, my right cheeks gaining its color once again as his fingers brushed against it. My skin was still grey; my lips still blue. The pink tinge in the apple of my cheek seemed so bright against the rest of my skin. 

"No you don't. You could never hate me," he laughed, placing a kiss on my forehead and letting the color flush back to the flat plane which had become creased in frustration. I would move, to push him away, but my body was immobile. He had utter control of me. 

"I do. You left me," I insisted, shivering as his ghostly touch traveled to my left cheek. His arms wrapped around my middle, pulling me closer to him, filling my body with light. My skin's grey, chalky feel diminished as gold skin dusted onto me, as the water warmed just a bit. 

"No I didn't. I'm saving you," he smiled, oblivious to my anger, which was getting harder and harder to hold onto. I blinked, and suddenly Louisiana swamps and gators and mosquitoes and mangroves were far from my mind. The smell of saltwater invaded my nose. We lived in Louisiana; there was no ocean down the block, at least not in Wickerville. And yet here we were, standing in warm ocean water, waves slapping against our backs. 

Instead of the buzz of mosquitoes, I heard the cawing of seagulls and waves crashing. Where mangroves loomed over us, creating shadow under the blood red, setting sun, was endless grey sky. The change of scenery was the least of my concerns, as I fisted his shirt and felt tears prickle. It's the salt water in your eyes, I told myself.

"I'm alone," I said, my voice cracking, my eyes flickering to his. The slow smile that tugged at his lips was something you saw in movies; something so perfect you'd never be able to forget it. He leaned down close, his thoughts invading my own. Something pressed against the palm of my hand, but before I could see what it was, Avery's lips loomed very, very close to mine. His dark eyes never left my face, never left my own eyes, and a feeling of exaltation rippled through me.

No you're not. I'm back, and I'm not giving up, he thought, right before landing a kiss on my lips and filling me with life. Right before dropping me, and letting the saltwater fill my lungs. Right before I drown.

I woke, gasping for air, the smell of salt water swathing the air and making me feel sick. My skin was damp, from sweat or maybe even sea water, crazy as it sounded. My fingers dug into the palm of my hand, fisting something that was hot in my hands. 

My shaking fingers uncurling, I stared at the smooth, black little pebble in my hand. 

The smell of frying eggs brought me back to reality, the sound of Grandmother calling my name for breakfast, and the pebble fell from my shaking hands in horror. I struggled to sit up, the white linen sheets wrapped tightly around my legs, and felt the shaky feeling in my chest implode. 

Avery was coming back.

The thought made my knees go weak, and a sick feeling to bubble in my stomach. This couldn't be true, could it? 

I was finally normal. I had friends, and an awesome boyfriend, and a spot as a flyer on the cheerleading team. When Avery and I were together... weird things happened. 

"Vienna, get down here soon before your breakfast gets cold," I heard Grandmother call again. I grabbed hold of the rock, still hot in my hand, and gave it a half-hearted squeeze. My fingers worked to untangle the sheets from my legs, and I blew my bangs out of my eyes with a loud exhale. The light filtered through the large window of my bedroom, making the light blue walls seem three shades lighter. 

My colorful, polka-dot sheets finally became a rumpled mess at the foot of my bed, and I climbed out of bed, the long-haired, furry floor rug tickling my toes as I curled them into the carpet. 

I finally decided making an effort sounded draining, and I didn't need any more of that, so I grabbed my favorite pair of faded, boot-cut jeans, cheerleading camp t-shirt, and Jake's varsity lettterman jacket,  and threw my disheveled hair into a messy ponytail. Glancing in the mirror, I flinched. 

Dark bags and purple sags hung under my eyes. Pink veins spun around my irises, making them look pink and bloodshot. My skin was pasty, and I swore I saw a pimple forming. Letting out a strangled cry, I cursed Avery and the nightmare he literally put me through. Shoving on my Converse sneakers, I grabbed my book bag that habitually rested by the doorway, and went downstairs to eat breakfast.

The awkward air was almost as heavy and scent of frying food. On the round oak table by the stain-glass framed, kitchen pass-through, was the familiar plate of eggs, a freshly made biscuit, bacon. The only thing missing were the hashbrowns, sprinkled with red and green peppers. I knew she was still angry, because her hashbrowns were my favorite part of breakfast. 

"Good morning," Grandmother mumbled, although the meaning was lost. So far, my morning had been crap. 

I listened to the sizzle and pop of bacon grease in the pan, standing dumb in the middle of the doorway. Guilt kept me frozen in place, although fear kept me from hugging her. My grandmother was a tough lady, with a back made for carrying bricks, as she always used to say. The southern twang in her voice only seemed to amplify the saying; city girls weren't made to slave by the stove for hours. 

I'm not saying she was heartless by any means. She had taken me in when no one else wanted me. My mother was missing, and I never knew my father, although Grandmother always assured me that was a good thing. A no good rat that boy was, she'd say, taking another gulp of ice tea. He was a con; never up to any good. 

"Well, are you going to hang around there like a rusty nail, or are you going to eat your breakfast," Grandmother snapped, the curlers in her hair bouncing with each headbob. I nodded, my mouth agape with embarrassment and shame, and pulled out the chair set with a plate full of food. 

"Say your grace," she added, before turning back to the stove as a drop of grease landed on her apron. 

Bowing my head, I intertwined my fingers and prayed for Grandmother not to read my thoughts.

Dear God... Sir? His Holiness? I am lost. I don't normally pray-- not that it stops Grandmother from telling me to, although I usually just bowed my head and thanked God for 'the blessed food. Amen'-- so I have a feeling I'm not exactly one of His top priorities. Look, God, could you just... could you just kill Avery Silver? Wait, is it a sin to wish for someone's death? Okay, could you just... I don't know seriously injure him. Give him a bad case of amnesia. Keep him as far from Wickerville, and my normal life, as possible? Okay, thank you God. Oh, and, uh, bless this food. Amen.

Grandmother didn't look at me as she slopped gravy onto my plate, the grey liquid trickling own the side of the buttery, golden brown biscuit. The heat from the sizzling gravy wafted around me, steam emitting in the air. I didn't want to know if she heard my thoughts. Instead, I grabbed hold of my silver fork, my fingers clamping around it so tightly my knuckles turned white, and took a big bite of biscuit and gravy, the roof of my mouth scalding. Despite the tears of pain that had begun watering in my eyes, I didn't dare look up, and instead chewed just a bit faster.

"Vienna Nicole, slow down. I don't need you chokin'," Grandmother snapped, making me swallow the hot lump of food that had almost lodged in my throat. I nodded, finally meeting her gaze, and felt that familiar shame wash over me when her watery hazel eyes met mine.

The blue, terry bathrobe was wrapped around her wiry frame, reminding me of a bird. I wondered if she would sprout feathers and fly away. Her tufts of white hair were white cotton candy; the blue veins that crawled all over her body like ivy were spider webs. She looked so frail, despite the hand that clung to her hip and demanding brow lifted, and helpless.

 "I," she said testily, a snarl bubbling in her voice, "am not helpless."

"I-I... I'm sorry, Grandma. Not just about that," I said quietly, my gaze dropping the suddenly unappetizing plate of Southern breakfast in front