Sorry for the short chapter. All of this was forced. Who cares? Not me. That's for sure. All I wasn't to do for this story is DLT DLT DLT! Bah. Read my other story if you really love me. (BrokenIce on Fictionpress, Motion Pictures Presents) Thanks?
I walked in a bit of a daze, the next morning, thinking about my prophecy, and promised myself not to buy apples. Ever and forever after. That way, I could evade the prophecy.
I smiled to myself thinking that I was okay then. I could never eat apples for the rest of my life. That was fine, I tried to convince myself. I am going to marry Chenate. And I am going to get rid of Desi. And I am going to be happy. I just cannot eat any apples.
Good Heavens.
I was going to be okay, okay? Not okay. Somebody just chuck an apple at my head. Just kidding, really.
When I went downstairs again, I noticed everyone was already gone, again. And the foyer was a complete mess. Mud and grass was everywhere. A squished bug or two made the whole mess more ornate, but the crusty sand made it complete. I gagged and thought to myself, that I should better begin.
I wished Chenate were part of the prophecy.
And also, Desi can't even run, never mind run and fall off a mountain, like the story (Not the prophesy). She'd have to roll off, I thought to myself, and laughed.
Laughing felt good.
The face of Dreynagus was stoic as he watched Desdemona from his glass bounds.
"My lady, do not add to the burden of your mistakes!" Dreynagus said ominously.
Desi glared at the mirror and swept sweaty strands of hair away from her spherical head. "Annabelle will be the death of me." She snarled, crows fluttering away in fright.
"Sooth," Dreynagus commented. "She shall."
Desdemona screamed in rage and frustration, and clutched a fire poker. It was uneasily heavy, but she had never held one before, and it was unnatural in her hands. In a quick burst of strength, Desi swung the poker at the mirror, shattering the glass head on.
Dreynagus died that instant.
However, it wasn't as if she had ever cared. Turning back to her poisons, Desi looked at all of them with derision.
Not strong enough.
Took too long to react.
Not enough to kill.
She looked at a glassy red container. Perfect.
Carefully she analyzed each of the others, none of them to her liking. A dagger beyond the twisted bottles and broken vials lay cunningly close to Desdemona's hand. She picked it up, and had an idea. Hastily, she sawed off a cluster of hair, matted by sweat and shoved it into the opening of another rusted decanter. It wasn't a poison, but a potion.
She had quickly realized there was not going to be an easy way to convince Annabelle to drink the poison, least of all, the poison given to her by Desdemona. She held the dagger dangerously, and pierced her thumb, letting the bright blood roll down into the green vial.
"May the red of this blood soon match the ruby of her lips." Desdemona muttered in a mad soliloquy. She smiled lopsidedly now. "And for something sweet to murder thy equal in innocence."
There was no candy in the manor- Desdemona had eaten it all. Nor were there any cakes of any kind. It had been a long time since Annabelle had stopped making them, and all of the servants had been fired. The only thing there was left was the natural sugar of apples.
Desdemona growled. Apples were bad enough, but they were small, sour ones at that. Taking the basket of the apples with her, she ran down to her poisons to see what could be done.
She looked at the dozen apples and bit one. Sour, Desdemona thought, disgusted. They will never do! She threw the bitten apple to the floor, but knocked the red vial over, spilling onto the fruit. Desdemona cried out in alarm. Her potion had been ruined.
She stopped suddenly when the apples started to grow to the size of two of her fists together and became a sparkling gold. She raised her eyebrows and smirked. These apples could easily pass for thriving Golden Delicious apples. Desdemona neatly arranged the remaining eleven apples into the basket and stared expectantly at the green vial.
Instinctively, she looked back at Dreynagus, waiting for him to comment, but there was none. The mirror stayed shattered and dead, bits of small glass still stuck to the edges of the dulled frame.
No matter. She hauled the small green concoction to her fat lips and threw back her head. The potion was bitter, and Desdemona nearly spit it out, but forced it down.
Immediately, she could feel herself shrinking and her skin growing gaunt. Her breath became haggard and she clutched her back in pain. Desdemona's legs were weak and ached from years and years of aging. Her hair seemed to scream in horror and turned a shade of ghostly white.
She caught herself in one of Dreynagus' broken shards and nodded grimly. She took the basket and hobbled towards the nearest door.
It was time to kill the beloved Annabelle.