Brooke Farron

Her Warm Winter

PART 1 It was a cold winter’s day; the frost was sharp and had left many of the woodland creatures frozen by its bite. In the desolate woods, she sat alone on a bench. How she liked it. Her name was Blanche, French, after her birthplace. Skin a pale and creamy porcelain dream. Ghost like, as if it had not seen a day of sun since her birth sixteen winters ago. She shuddered, the chill flowing through her veins. Lips as smooth as velvet, petals of a red rose. Her hair was a dark fog, the eerie feather of a raven, thick and ever growing. She wore a scarf, the colour of blood, which gently trickled down her body, suffocating her tender neck. Crunched up in her left hand was a photo of a woman. She was said to be the fairest of them all; the epitome of perfection, a being to admire. Her aura of aesthetic beauty was what gave her most contentment in life.