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The burgundy that ran through Maria’s veins, the carnations that bloomed for every beat of her heart, the rust that grew on the bullets that went through her— how much more does Natasha need to endure to stop the garnet from spilling out?
Vampires were excluded from the rest of the world, and the carnelian-haired girl knew that. She knew hiding from Maria was cowardice, lying is the language of the insecure, and each night she remembers the claret-toned lips that curls up into a grin as Natasha pretended to be just as human, all the while Maria’s cheeks ran amaranth.
It is so easy to parade as rulers of a kingdom built with firebrick. The craven who marooned the moment she could. Leaving those who suffered in a pool of their own burgundy. Natasha would return but the carmine that once filled her mouth burned on the corner of her lips.
The clock is ticking, every movement comes closer to the cerise of doomsday. How long until the girl that made the undead heart beat once more for just a moment would see the blood-sucking monster that Natasha really is?
Carmine wrapped the sky like a velvet cloth. Natasha hated sunsets, for they reminded her of the pulses she took as a recreant. Of course, Maria would find her, she heard her heartbeat from a mile away.
“Nat?”
“Go away,” The vampire resisted the temptation of the mahogany that ran through Maria’s veins so loudly, “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” Maria defies.
Natasha’s hands turned into fists, she couldn’t. “Can’t hurt you.” She says as her throat closes on her.
“You could never hurt me.”
“I can.”
Silence stretches between them, the blood rushing in the brunette’s veins became more prominent— more tempting. Natasha couldn’t look at her, but she will always stand out no matter where her eyes lay. Like the wine spill stain on a white shirt, or a bright ruby-colored stop sign on the road.
Maria steps closer, Natasha steps back— almost a dance. “Why?” Blue eyes pleaded.
For the first time in a while, she looked at them. Natasha couldn’t help the small smile that crept up her pale face, the points of her fangs reflecting back like a small star.
Just for a second, she could hear Maria physically stop breathing. “You could never hurt me,” She insists, the vermillion on her cheeks never fading, “if the way I die is because you needed me, then I will die.”
“I hate that I love you, I’m not even supposed to.” Maria’s cordovan lips smiled lightly at her confession.
“I would love the undead for you.”
Sometimes love isn’t always a forest fire, sometimes it could be thousands of quiet paper cuts that burns, but worth it for the origami. The anatomy of it is never consistent. While sometimes it’s loud and flashy rosewood, it could be quiet and the color of fading currant.
Natasha was a beautiful rose in a garden of carnations, and it was about time she saw it. Maria would be there to remind her every moment. Their love was so scarlet, it was maroon.