Steady

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1. Champagne

A golden liquid sparkled naughtily in the white glow of the moon. A window was cracked open and a cool breeze traced with the smell of rain upset the curtains. The mahogany table accompanied the sunny color of the drink perfectly as a woman with forget-me-not blue hair sat, swirling her finger absentmindedly around the base of the glass. 

A chain of pearls hung loosely off her neck. Whiter than freshly fallen snow but tainted with a kiss of blood. Staring. Staring. Staring. Clothing draping of her frail figure, her long, spindly fingers moved from the glass to the pearls. They took the garment off, slowly at first as if testing the temperature. Then, with a sudden movement, she whipped the necklace off, flinging it on the table, knocking the bubbly over.

And it spilled like blood, oozing sickly sweet all over the floor with a steady drip like a dying heart.

You might be wondering how champagne, pearls and a frail woman all have to do with each other. 

*The most basic and important fact of life: Nothing has nothing to do with anything. People make something have to do with another thing.*

In other words: The three objects had no correlation. Until now.

A woman. A simple, unimportant woman had suddenly become very important in the course of three and three quarter hours. Funny how life works like that. How one second, you are just another ant crawling around stupidly on the ground and then the next second, you are the bee. 

Funny.

She tapped her finger, as if expecting someone. She shouldn't be. nobody was coming.

She had seen it herself.

*Note: Vevina von Vasille had witnessed a murder. A murder that reminded her of champagne and cranberries.

He had fallen to the ground. His neck breaking with a sickening crunch, his blood crawling out from him, thick, golden and crimson. Thats how she saw it. Gold for human life, red for death and thick for important. His heart had thrummed for a bit more, beating with a weak squabble like a rasping bird. His one eye had turned to Vevina, looking straight at her, breaking the barrier of human and soul. Blood bubbling out of his mouth, staining his brown mustache red, he had croaked this:

"42 East Street." 

Vevina watched his soul flee. She watched it climb into death's arms and curl up. She watched the silver glimmer of the pearls and blood fall out of his clammy hands.

42 East Street. 

 

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