Kaname gazed into the dark indigo sky with a pensive face. It was dark. Too dark. All his senses told him something was going to happen. Hairs prickled on the back of his neck; the moon that night was shrouded in a thick cloak of cloud and barely shone. Looking down he scoped the churchyard that backed onto his terrace house looking for signs of unusual movement. He was too tired to sleep and all his senses were on red-alert. He could hear his neighbours on the left listening to some soft romantic music. They were chatting over it in low voices. Kaname moved into the neighbourhood because of the peace surrounding it and next door they respected that, even as the active young couple they happened to be.
Snow drifted through the air and flakes alighted upon her mitten. Red. She remembered this. A tiny pucker creased her forehead because she'd frowned at her next thought. What is red? In the back of her mind she knew what it was but it came from a different place than this. In this world she could remember nothing. Cold. I remembered that. The feeling of bitter cold. Petite and dressed in a long, deep red cloak, which trailed behind her as she wandered slowly through the snow, she barely took in the stone around her. The graveyard was old, very old and provided many hiding places for sadistic humans lying in wait for the next prey of the night. Flakes caught on her thick cloak and large bambi-like eyes turned to gaze at a partly obscured waning moon.
However soft, the movement caught his eye and he scrutinised the limestone. He caught sight of the tail end of the cloak as it swished past a grave and he started. His eyes pinpointed the grave and he rose elegantly from the window seat to give chase. He looked again and the figure was advancing toward the gate at the rear of the yard. It was small and he guessed it was a child; he had to catch up with it, to find it. Though he had trepidation about this child he decided upon following it. What would a child be doing alone, wandering around a graveyard under the cover of night? His brain screamed at him to stop his recklessness and stay. That it was a trap. Curious now, though, he grabbed his jacket and looked at his still pristine and unruffled bed. He rarely slept there now, too much pain surrounded it. He closed his eyes, not wanting to relive painful moments. Maybe... But he couldn't think that. It was impossible. She was long dead.
Silent. Eerie silence but for her gentle movements enveloped the night's air. She blinked and sighed. Why can't I remember? Why did I have to forget? Wrapped so far in her own world she'd forgotten to keep walking. She quickly started up again, her feet only carrying her to a single destination. One which she didn't even vaguely remember but her feet seemed to know the way.
He slipped on large wellies and a long black coat which reached to just above his knees, and had silver tipped toggles to fasten it with; as he trudged outside into the thick, and already deep, swirling snow. His arms were down by his sides though bent, because he was crouched. He was bent over, almost bent double, with all his limbs in line so as to make himself smaller and hearing the snow under foot crunch with every step as it was untouched and still crisp. He pushed open the long rusted gate; which let out a small squeak of protest, as it had been left unopened for years, and clambered over the net of brambles at its base. He trailed his hand, for guidance, along the railing which was cracked and peeling, black paint flaking down his long fingers brushed past each rail. He whipped round as a sudden sound caught his attention: a branch snapping in the nearby wood and to his shock and delight he saw the child enter.
Cold. Again the thought hit her and then, for the first, shivers ripped through her small body and her shudders made weary knees collapse. She fell slowly, as though through time it seemed, hitting the leaf littered ground with a tiny rustle of bracken. I can't stay here. Her mind told her. Keeping running, keep going, must carry on. Shakily, she stood once more, swaying slightly and blinking before trudging on, now passing trees and hurtful branches, rather than stone cold graves. She walked slower now as though through thick slime. So tired. Her mind's last whispered thought before she passed out among the ferns.
Following her trail through the thick forestry was harder than he'd first imagined. Her footsteps were too light and so practically obscured by rotting leaves which filled small tracks into the density. He quickened his pace, knowing she wouldn't have gotten to the other side by dawn. He had no idea of how far she'd managed to travel since he'd seen her enter but he knew he must find her. Wrapped up in his thoughts he continued on to find the body. With a gasp he stopped, noticing the red, fanning out on the forest floor. So invisible was the cloak against dark autumn leaves that it looked as though it was seeping into the earth, like blood or water. Still his sharp eyes missed nothing and he caught sight of it immeadiately.
Lifting her small frame was no problem, but it was like picking up a delicate porcelain doll. So fragile was the face he gazed down upon; with noble, high rising cheekbones; long eyelashes brushing these fine cheekbones; full lips gently parted and small gasps filled his ears. Her innocent beauty pained him, taking him back to a better, happier time. He rested the girl's head up against his wide, muscular shoulder and draped her too skinny legs over his other arm; stumbled out of the trees then headed quickly, but not speedily enough to jostle the girl, towards the gate which he had previously yanked open.
Climbing the many stairs into his room, he noticed many things. The girl's face and arms were covered in tiny scratches and her beautiful hazel hair (which was at least waist length) covered a barely noticeable scar on the side of her cheek, reaching towards her ear. It was a very unusual scar in the way that it branched off and forked when it came about one centimetre into face. The whole of it was about an inch long. He wondered how the girl had somehow obtained the dreadful imperfection – the only marring of her beauty. The morning would be full of mysteries he decided, almost glumly. It meant he couldn't keep the child he was already beginning to love, as parents, who might also love, would most certainly be searching for their little angel. No matter, however; the morning could hold what it would, for now he, for the first time in a few years; he felt tired enough to fall asleep.
Subconsciously, he had spooned the girl against himself during the night. He thought in horror, as he awoke from a deep sleep. Getting over it, he turned to his alarm clock. 5pm! "Urgh" he groaned to himself. He scrambled out of bed to stumble blearily to the en-suite bathroom to wash off. Still blinking the sleep away he went back to his room to grab clothes for the day. He settled with a white shirt (without buttons), dark mahogany slip-over (vest if you're American) and deep black pants. Rushing, he pulled all these items on quickly then slipped a dark brown belt through loops at the top of the chinos which sat on carefully on prominent hips below a thin, muscular stomach. He jumped most of the stairs to get to the kitchen downstairs and grabbed a glass, reaching for the packets of blood tablets in one of many drawers in the spacious kitchen.
"AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHH" The high pitched scream resounded from upstairs. He dropped the glass immediately in shock and rushed for his bedroom. The screaming continued for at least ten seconds. But he reacted to it in four, bounding up the stairs. By the time she was sobbing into her knees he was there, and at the ready to attack anything. She didn't seem to notice him as he began to inch cautiously toward her, still in his bed. Sobs wracked her frame, heaving with the force of them. He stepped forward with a slight frown creasing his forehead, unsure of what to do. Deliberating quickly, he decided to put his arm round her trembling shoulders. This seemed to work. She leaned into his toned chest, tugging slightly at his shirt, salty tears leaking down into it: probably staining it. He thought to himself. This was with a slight annoyance but he was unable to be mad at the angel crying.
The child had calmed down quite well after he had been sat there with her, rocking her, and holding her against his chest. "Nightmare?" he'd asked her and she'd nodded not elaborating, and somehow, he knew she didn't want to talk about it. It was fine though, it seemed they both understood the realistic horrors that the imagination could conjure up at night.