Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All original characters and situations belong to me.
SCARLETThere was no man in her bed this morning,
He'd left some time in the night.
No one during breakfast was calling,
They'd known she'd be all right.
But all she had left were her scarlet robes,
Heavy and binding on her skin.
All she wanted was another go,
The excuses were wearing so thin.
She wanted another life,
Another chance, another stab.
A life where she wasn't getting fucked
In the back of an unmarked cab.
Stretched on the bed in a torn crimson dress,
She thought back to when she was free.
No expectations, no need to fit in,
Back when she could just be.
The first drops segued into her gown,
Running out over the sharp knife.
Dripping down onto the crisp white sheets,
Writing out the tale of her life.
There was no man in her bed that morning,
They always left some time in the night.
No one knew she lay on her deathbed smiling,
They hadn't known she wasn't all right.
Blaise sat shivering on the kitchen stool, hands wrapped tightly round a cup of coffee. Her bandaged arms stood out pale against her dark outfit. The radio sang out to her, chilling her with its words. That was her song, her dance, her act. Been there, done that, had the scars to show. Except the scars hadn't healed yet.
She should have been dead. She tried to die. But she didn't, hadn't. Someone had come in and saved her. As she lay bleeding on her sheets, someone had broken into her private sanctuary, swore at her, ripped her sheets and tied her slashed arms. An anonymous figure had come in and pulled her back from the brink, reached over the precipice and hauled over, saved her. And she couldn't even say thank you.
All she remembered was black, a fleeting image of a dark man wearing unrelieved black. She couldn't tell if the clothes were muggle or wizard, she had lost far too much blood by that stage. She couldn't remember his face, much less a name, had he given it. All she recalled was his low melodious voice, shouting at her, arguing with himself, murmuring to her that she'd be all right. So she would start looking, based on a sound and a colour.
She had asked the hospital staff if a man had come with her in the ambulance, if there was a man in her apartment who'd called them. She was met with confused expressions and vows to check with the ambulance staff. They too didn't know, hadn't seen anyone at the scene. Maybe, they said, it was a hallucination brought on by blood loss. Knowing glances were exchanged above her head. She remained silent.
The coffee was still warm, clutched in her icy hands. She drank it slowly, savouring the taste, as she always did. Before, everything was numb and cold. But now, now there was something burning inside her, a tiny flickering flame, spluttering and coughing as she protected it. Now she had a purpose, something to do as she stepped out into the winter morning air. Gathering her leather trench tighter around her and pulling her hat down, she set out to find her rescuer. He had saved her, somehow he'd known. Now she had to find him, thank him. He had come in that night, not as another nameless face in her bed, not for her body, her alcohol, but for her. The person beneath the designer clothes, the perfect makeup. She knew that instinctively. Just as she now knew she had to find him, save him, return the favour that would bind her to him forever.