Author: lightmylumiere PM
Florence and Anatoly have only been away from each other for 2 months, but what would it take to lead them together again? Florence has it. Florence/Freddie, slight Florence/Anatoly Rated for animal violence and themesRated: Fiction T - English - Drama - Chapters: 18 - Words: 7,276 - Reviews: 16 - Favs: 4 - Follows: 2 - Updated: 10-10-11 - Published: 04-22-11 - Status: Complete - id: 6928207
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
*The fabulous world of Chess!
Note: I've never played chess, so I don't really know how the game works. I haven't seen Chess live, nor until last year did I even know it was a musical. But I listen to it every night until I fall asleep now, so how bad can this go?
But I love reviews almost as much as I love accordions, 1940s fashion, stepping out of comfort zones, and bulk writing!*
Prologue 1: What happened at the House
I held onto my hood as I ran up to his porch. Why was I here, this wasn't my home. But I knew, this had to be done. For me, for Anatoly. For everything I lived for, for what was inside me.
Yet my every movement: digging under the mat, clinging to the past, loathing the one I was to kill… none of that would show my affections. After all, the blade is the only thing that can relieve the emotions inside me.
There I was: in his house. Oh, how I longed to whisper in his ear "Anatoly, come back to me". But how could I do that without my prey listening in?
I was there, in his kitchen, fixing bait for the one I longed to see it's blood on the wall. I placed it at the foot of the stairs. It came, barely on two legs, groggily going down the stairs. "Florence, don't do this. You're going to regret it." But, like a stalking cat, I waited as she sat at the top of the stairs, snacking on the cookies I laid out.
With barely more than that of a whimper, I threw myself on my prey, sinking the knife deep into it's flesh. Not that I could say I regretted it, until I saw it drain itself on the tiles. I took my paintbrush like I promised I would, and dipped it into the puddle on the floor. "Oh, Svetlana would hate me for this." But then I remember: she never would have been able to.
I looked at what I had painted with delicate red strokes. Everything was unexpected, yet it was so amazing I couldn't resist leaving it up. And as the blood dried on the wall, I didn't resist what I saw.
Anatoly would wake up in the morning, finding her dead, and finding on the foyer walls painted in red: We have a Son, F.V.