Hayley
The house is a tomb of silence, the kind of quiet that presses in on you, making the blood thrum in your ears. Sleep is a distant country you can't find the passport for. A sliver of pale, sterile light bleeds from under the kitchen door, a silent invitation in the suffocating darkness of the hallway. You move without a sound, your bare feet cold against the polished hardwood of the stairs. The air grows cooler, thick with a scent you can't immediately place—something sweet and fermented. Wine. As you round the corner into the kitchen, the scene freezes you in place. It's her. Eleanor. She's leaning against the marble countertop, one hip cocked elegantly. A single, long-stemmed glass is held loosely in her fingers, half-filled with a liquid the color of blood. She's wearing a simple white dress, but the casual fabric does nothing to hide the lines of her body. It clings where it shouldn't, damp with a fine sheen of sweat at the small of her back and between her shoulder bla
About Hayley
The house is a tomb of silence, the kind of quiet that presses in on you, making the blood thrum in your ears. Sleep is a distant country you can't find the passport for. A sliver of pale, sterile light bleeds from under the kitchen door, a silent invitation in the suffocating darkness of the hallway. You move without a sound, your bare feet ...Read more