AN Don't know what came over me... late night, noticing a cat's scratch on my arm, writing this. Probably strange grammar and strange content and strange spelling mistakes and strange words in strange places, sorry for that. Don't even know why I've come to writing in English so much.

Disclaimer: Really, there should be an automatic disclaimer for this webside. Like it comes automatically with having an account here. But there isn't, so if you have to be sure: No, it's not mine. It's Gregory Maguire's and if it was mine it wouldn't be as gorgeous ad nobody would want to write about it, because he's the genius, not me. Sniff.

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Blood

Blood. It played an important role in her life. She'd never thought about it much, but now it crept into her mind, slowly, unbidden, until its presence could no longer be denied.

Blood meant family, people tied together by bloodlines. She'd known that, always, and hadn't thought about it twice because it was just naturally. She had never made a connection between the word bloodline and the blood that was this red fluid that got darker and sticky when it dried, that was the pure essence of Life pulsing through the veins of people, Animals and animals alike. But it was just the same. Her blood was connected with her mother's blood, which had ceased to make its way through Melena's body long ago, and somehow Melena's blood was now flowing within her, although it still seemed more a metaphor than everything else, after all she hadn't soaked up her mother's blood to use it for herself. Still, they were the same blood.

The same blood flooding through her sisters veins, her sister, whom she had not seen since university, of whom she hardly knew anything, no matter the bloodline. She was her sister, but she was from her blood as well, but bloodlines meant family and not knowledge about each other. She hardly knew her sister, she realized, just as she didn't know her brother. Blood. Family. Not closeness.

Her father. Once agan the same blood, Thropp blood. Bloody Thropps, she mused, knowing it was absurd. Her father hated her for being his blood and she knew it. He had never made an effort to hide his disgust towards her, and she hadn't expected him to. After all, blood meant family, but family didn't mean love, it didn't mean understanding.

There were other types of blood. The blood dripping from a small wound, a small scratch, drawn by a knive on bare skin. Then another one and another as she tried to will the emotional pain away. It was a kind of blood that was disgusting, and satisfying just as much. It was different. If somebody had seen her, they might have told her to stop it, that it wouldn't help, but nobody saw. She didn't show it. She hadn't had many friends who could have seen, anyway. She didn't have much to do with this sort of blood – she soon realized it didn't help, and stopped cutting lines into her green skin. It was no use, drawing this type of blood.

Roses have thorns, and those thorns can draw blood as well. When Galinda accidentally cut herself with a rose given to her by on of her countless secret admirers, the blood was mingled with tears. Tears dripping from soft blue eyes, running over pink cheeks and dropping on a fair-skinned white hand, getting mixed with a few droplets of red blood. When it comes to minor wounds, blood hurts a little, but it can be comforted. It won't last long, and even the memory fades away quickly.

Blood had always controlled her life, in so many different ways. She had never stopped to ponder it, it was just a fact, no need to think about it, so she had ignored it. But it wouldn't led her anymore. It was everywhere. Blood on her clothes, blood on her hands, her arms, her face, blood in her hair, blood all around the room. Blood on his body. Leaking from wounds, deeper than any rose thorn could cut. His skin appeared to be red. She hadn't known a human body held so much blood within it, and she wished she didn't know it. But the evidence was here, right before her eyes, and she didn't have the power to close them. She knew it was too late, but she did not want to know. She knew there was no pulse, but she frantically searched for one anyway, spreading the blood even more, on him, on her. His blood on her, and she thought of bloodlines and how she now held his blood, and she felt her throat tighten and nearly vomited at the thought. She didn't want to hold his blood, not like this. His blood on her hands. She thought of Galinda and how she had spilled a few tears when her hand was hurt and how the tears mingled with the blood, but she did not cry, she could not cry. She couldn't stand the sight of any more blood, and she knew what her tears would do. So she screamed.

She screamed, a long, glass-shattering sound no human was ever supposed to make. She screamed, because she could not cry, but she couldn't scream out the agony she felt either. She couldn't concentrate on anything else. The pain was red, red as his blood, and she could see it, she could smell it, she could even hear it, still dripping softly on the floor. She could taste it in her mouth, because she had kissed him, but he wouldn't be kissed awake like a fairy tale prince. All she saw was red, and all she felt was the pain in her bleeding heart, bleeding just like Fiyero bled. Her heart was still beating, and his wasn't. But both were bleeding out.

She didn't know where she was, and she didn't care. She just felt someone wipe away the blood from her wrists, his blood, and she felt as if they wiped her sanity right away together with the red, sticky substance that meant so much to her.

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AN Whatever you think about it... I think it's strange, but I'd love to know your opinion on that matter, yeah? You know what I mean...