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Spindle

It’s early in the morning when she wakes, the sun not yet spreading its rosy glow across the horizon. She stretches, her long, pale arms almost reaching the low ceiling in her bedroom, brilliantly painted fingernails jumping out in contrast to her pale skin and white-painted walls. She shakes out her blonde hair, feeling it cascade down her back as she releases it from the knot it was twisted into last night before she fell victim to sleep. She stands, the soft fabric of her dress moving comfortingly over her skin, and walks to the red door that remains ajar on the opposite side of her room. As she steps into whatever is beyond that door, she looks back once at the whiteness that is her only sanctuary.
Beyond the door is warmth, or so she thinks. In reality, the room itself is probably colder than the bedroom, but the fiery hues warm up the tiny room in a way that hot air cannot. She walks to the mirror hung on the wall, closing the door behind her. Leaning on the ornate sink, she stares at her reflection. Dark eyes stare back, striking in such a pale face. As always, a trickle of blood runs down her temple, from where the spindle struck her head. She touches it, the red drop clinging to her fingertip even after she pulls it away, threatening to fall and stain the golden tiling beneath her feet. She sighs, the vibration of her hand causing the drop to shake. It threatens to fall, and she touches her finger lightly to the stone of the sink that she leans on.
There’s a noise in the room behind her, and she turns, hair flying out behind her in a white-blonde sheet. She cracks the door, just enough so that she can peer out into the white room.
There’s nothing there. She slumps in disappointment, opening the door fully and walking back to her bed. It calls to her, and she lies down, her head hitting the pillow with a soft thud. She pulls the blankets up around her, curling into a tiny ball against the cold. And then she sleeps.



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