Witching hour

Stark white, the canvas sat in front of her for an hour now.  1 am, the witching hour and her head filled with despair. How in the hell could this be happening? For the past three nights, she awoke in the middle of the night, her skin as cold as ice, and hands covered in blood. None of it hers. She made certain there was not a flaw on her porcelain skin. Was there a reason for this? A forewarning? It was then that she felt it. Her hip throbbed with searing white pain. So intense that she pulled the pants from her body to search for the cause. Nothing. Only a scar in the shape of an entrance wound. At four months old, it was healed. The Doctors said there would be no long-lasting effects of the shooting. Not physically at least. In her head, the memory of the night would always remain. 

Four months prior

The old church was a landmark in the small Island. It could be seen from town, and the stories the locals gave of the place shook her to the core. Yet, it was where she needed to be. To pray. He was close and she knew it. Prayer was all she had left. Lately, every time she closed her eyes she could feel his breath on her flesh, and the scent of bourbon burning her nostrils. Even though this happened years ago, she knew it was coming again. She was not his victim. Goddammit, she refused to be a victim again to that man. 

The moment she walked into the church, there was a force that dropped her to her knees. The caps now scratched with fine particles of sand, she couldn’t move. Fear paralyzed her. 

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. Please, I beg of you, don’t let him do this to me.”

Cries could be heard through the small church, but they were drowned out with the sound of a clip being pushed into a gun. Crunching footfalls behind her, she managed to bring herself to her feet to face him. Mary fully expected her Father to be there, but it was someone she had never met. 

“Please, don’t do this. Please, I’ve never done anything to hurt anyone.”

Her words falling on deaf ears, she was going to die no matter how much she begged him to let her go. Money was the root of all evil, and he was paid to rid the world of the young blond. 

“Shut yer fucking trap. This is business, so don’t take it personally, but I must admit, you really pissed the old man off for him to pay what he did.” 

“I don’t have as much money, but I will give you everything I have. I have so much to lose. Please, please don’t do this.” In one gunshot she lost her entire world, 

The shot rang out, the blond flying back into the old wooden pew. He never checked to make sure she was dead, he assumed he hit an artery and she would bleed out. He never saw the Priest in the corner of the room that would save her either. She was a paycheck and in his mind, he completed the job. 

1:12 am September 25th

Her side throbbed, the blood-stained her hands, and yet the wound was healed. He was close, real close.

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