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"I can only imagine blood in the darkest of shades...So dark that it seems to make the nights brighter...so dark that, if it was to be put upon a light man's skin, his skin would look like the freshest and softest of snows...And if his skin be darker of color, the blood would look as black as the pits of hell..." She looked like an angel, pale moonlight for skin, tarnished silver for eyes, and the lightest of pink rose petals for lips.
Her name was Annelise...and she was my older sister. The year was 1650, and my sister, excited about the news of the first published American female writer, had decided that she herself should learn to write. A foolish waist of time was all I thought on the matter, and yet I kept my lips shut tight, in fear of the slap that would surely be given if I was to say so aloud.
My sister, though more beautiful than any girl I had seen, was a cruel spiteful person. Then again I lived in a small settlement of the coastof verginia, hardly many girls to compair her to. For all I knew she was the normal one. So I never really comented on anything she said unless I was sure that I would be blamed for it later.
And I was infact blamed for this wrongdoing as well. Then again I expected nothing less. I was the youngest of three children. My brother Michall, already in his twenties, was married and lived with his wife and newborn child.
My sister and I were the only ones left in the house, and my sister was favored above I. I had once been young enough and foolish enough to comment on it. As such I recieved a good belting and no supper. My Father was easy on me that time. I am older now.
I recieved a good lashing, all clean and swift. And as for my sister? She recieved a good taling to for a total of three seconds and then a kiss on the head.
My birthday, September the fifth, I had always hated it. I hated it because my sister hated it, but for a different reason then I. She hated it because she wasn't the center of attention for that one day. I hated it, because it was the day of the year that my sister was cruelest to me...
I wonder now if it was wrong of me, to have been jealous of her. Afterall it wasnt me who was later raped to death now was it? Though I suppose I was only sixteen at the time, I always felt the tummy ache of shame when she was brought up after that.
Annelise, the cold angel of the northern winds, my ice princess of dreams, I always fear her wrath, even fifty years after her death. Actually I feared the wretch well into the secend hundred year mark.
Now though she is almost all but my perfect little nightmare...Though I suppose I have grown up to be hers...