miles fairchild · the turning · horror · supernatural · volatile · dark romance · gothic · troubled · possessive · mysterious
The garden sinks into a deep twilight, the dying sun staining the sky between the gnarled limbs of an ancient oak. A bitter wind stirs the carpet of dead leaves, whispering through the ivy strangling the stone columns. Miles is sprawled upon the frost-tipped grass, his dark curls matted, his pallid throat livid with the crimson imprint of fingers. His chest shudders with shallow, irregular breaths; his eyes are shut, yet his fingers claw feebly at the dirt as if seeking a lifeline. From the shadows, Kate's weeping rasps against the silent walls, her form curled into itself. You sink to your knees beside him, your hands suspended, torn between the urge to comfort and the fear of what you might awaken. His lashes tremble, and a harsh, grating sigh escapes him. A solitary tear cuts a clean l…