Taken

Music dampened the air. The needle gracefully caressed the shellac. She'd had the old phonograph restored and played records she'd found in the attic of the house where her grandmother grew up. The box had been dusty, but untouched. Her mother had them appraised once. They were dated around 1901 or 1903. She liked the way the stylus made the air sound in between pieces of music.
Piano music. Soft. Beautiful. Sad.

She ran her fingers over the mahogany. So smooth. Such grace and life in that wood. Two tears fell. Two tears rolled over the lashes of her left eye, dropped down onto her cheekbone, and then descended impossibly slow. They reluctantly made their way down her fair skin leaving only the faintest trace behind. She wore no make up. Her lips had a natural blush to them and her eyes could penetrate steel. They were the color of forest moss. Not the moss you happen upon at the edge of the forest during a casual walk. The moss that hides itself deeply away where only fireflies spend time dancing in the moonlight near the waterfalls. Those deep green eyes shone so vibrant against her hair. Impossibly long and thick it was the color of the sea at midnight. Black as the heart of a raven.

Soft and ethereal, the white fabric clung to her gentle curves and spilled to the ground. She was stunning. But it didn't matter. She stared at the dust particles floating aimlessly in the stale beam of light that settled itself in the stagnant air of the room. The comforting smell of old pages in a library book hung in the room. She peered at the char in the fireplace. Wood and paper. Used and blackened. Materials that could once boast life and texture. Materials that were once firm and full of opportunity. At once, solid and pliable. Ready to be shaped by axe or by written word. Now they lay there as remains. They're not firm anymore. Their abstract forms bore little resemblance to what they once were and would crumble if you brushed by them with your finger. Just soot. Ashes.

She changed the record. The weight of it was pleasing in her hands. It was...tangible.
The dagger was at rest upon the phonograph. Its bejeweled handle fit in the palm of her hand as though it were crafted for her use. An array of gemstones encrusted the vicious arc. The blade curved in the same direction as the handle making the whole of it resemble a crescent moon. Slightly larger then her forearm, the dagger was an imposing image.

Still staring at the remains in the fireplace, she reached for it. Her fingers played upon the jewels lightly. The stones were cool to the touch. She let her fingers slide up and over the handle. Just before her hand closed completely around it the window glass smashed in spraying shards everywhere. Her eyes went wide with terror. Thousands of tiny, glinting, broken pieces sprayed the phonograph, her hair, her clothes.

Tiny droplets of blood immediately soaking through her gown in the hundreds, a testament to the shrapnel. One talon bolted toward her with unnatural speed and squeezed itself around her neck. The other gripped the window sill. She didn't struggle much. There was no screaming. She would have wept but she couldn't; one of its claws was digging into her flesh. It yanked her through. There was an obscene snapping sound that came from somewhere in her body as she was ripped through the gaping hole. The dagger clammored to the floor. Glass everywhere. Small tears of fabric clung to bits of broken glass still stuck in the window frame. Blood pooled on the oak floor and ran along the corridors of the natural grain. So much darker than in the movies.

Large pool of blood. Large dagger. One did not beget the other. The acrid smell left behind. Rotting flesh. Those talons had the stench of rotting flesh. One last shard of glass could take it no longer and fell from the window sill leaving only a few jagged pieces behind. It landed in the blood with a flat, wet sound devoid of life and of shape.

A tiny flame ignited itself among the ashes in the fireplace.
The piano music played.