Unlucky, Unfortunate, Miserable

When Emma was younger, her mother asked her this question: What is one word that she would use to describe herself? 

At the age of nine, Emma's answer then was red,

the color of her eyes and her mothers. Emma didn't have the mental capacity to fully understand what she was truly asking, though. 

What is one word that would describe her as a person, that makes her unique from everyone else?

Eight years later, she's realizing how terrible her answer was. If she could go back in time, she would change it.

The correct word is unlucky, unfortunate, miserable.

One event after the other, the world Emma knew had done one-eighty, and now she hangs upside down with claws dragging her into something foreign. If her mothers death isn't enough, a personal stalker is. 

Well, if she were real anyways. 

The first time Emma saw her was in her grandma's house. 

It was her first night there and she had just gotten out of the shower. She stood at Emma's window when she walked out with just a towel wrapped around her. The ghosts blood drenched the wooden floor, the smell of death permitting the air.

Emma takes a long sip from the red 'juice' box in her hand and hugs her sweater tighter around herself as a chill settles over her. Though the carton had 'Fruit punch' written on it, the contents inside is far from it. 

The taste of rotten berries fill her mouth, a hint of copper settling against her tongue as she swallows the thick liquid. 

Blood from a box doesn't taste the same as straight from the vein.

Goosebumps raise on her pale skin, ice cold air washing over her. Her eyes find the rear view mirror and she bites her lip to hold in a groan.

Think of her and she shall appear.

The ghost sits in the middle of the back seat of her grandmother's vehicle. Dark hair falls to her shoulders in big curls, contrasting her deathly pale skin. Her white shirt and blue jean's are covered in blood that drips onto the floor mat. Her blue eyes are bloodshot, sucken deep into her face.

The smell of rusty iron fills Emma's nose, making it flare. Her mouth waters, throat tightening as fangs protrude from her mouth. She curl her lips over them, ignoring the way they scrape against her flesh.

Emma glances at her grandma who is oblivious, but as though she could feel the temperature drop, she reaches forward and turns up the heat in the car. 

Emma's eyes go back to the rearview mirror and finds the woman staring back at her. 

She's going to go insane.

This was why Emma calls her a personal stalker, only she can see her. And she's not supposed to. 

Vampires aren't supposed to see the dead, that's reserved for the witches.

Straightening up in the passenger seat, Emma finishes off her blood box and crushes it in her hand. She tears her gaze away from the bloody woman in the back seat and stares out the windshield. 

Maybe if she ignores her, she'll disappear. 

Out of sight, out of mind. 

However it's harder than she thought. How can Emma stop thinking about the invisible girl staining her grandmother's car with her blood?

Emma shifts in her seat.

With her mother gone, the death weighing heavily on top of her shoulders, she's left with a gaping hole where she used to be. 

Emma is not the only one left with emptiness though. Her father is also missing a piece of himself. So much so that he isn't thinking straight.

Did he have to listen to her therapist when she said it was best to send her away?

No, he didn't. 

It wasn't the only option, but he did it anyway. She could still be with him right now. If the blonde she-devil didn't sink her claws into his vulnerable heart. 

Mrs. Montague was a sly little succubus who fed off her mothers death and took advantage of her dad. And got rid of Emma in one fair swoop, getting him all to herself. 

She scowls and glances at her grandmother who sits on the driver's side of her SUV. Her platinum white hair matched her own, pulled up tight into a braided bun at the top of her head.

Emma has been at her house for a week, and once again she finds her packed bags in the back of her car.

The smile on her Grandmas face doesn't hide the darkness that lurks around her. The sadness that now haunts everyone in the family. She's also hurting with the absence of her youngest daughter. 

And as if her death isn't enough to knock Emma down, the world decided it was necessary to move her across the country to DarkWood. 

Her dumb succubus therapist thought it would be best to connect her with family, and dad sent her to grandma Elize, without him. 

For the first time, she feels alone despite going through the same pain they are. Her death should have brought them together, they all lost someone they cared about, but as she sits next to Grandma Elize, she's farther from her than ever. 

Is grandma just as alone as she is? Is dad? With him being away from her, it feels like it. But then again, he doesn't seem so sad when he's around the blonde, man thief of a therapist. Especially when his tongue is down her throat.

Emma squishes the urge to ask and blinks back the tears that threaten to spill. 

Of course, they do. She saw the look on dad's face when the report came up about mom's body being found in the river. The image is burned into her head.

Emma glances at the rearview mirror and sighs when the girl drenched with blood is still there. She guesses she's going to stay a while. 

She doesn't hide her frown as they slow down. Her gaze shifts and she stares up at the twenty-foot black, wrought-iron gate in front of them.

Gold traces the spiked bars at the top, the letters DWA engraved into the middle. It's attached to the sandstone wall that seems to go on forever on both sides.

This is why she can't ask, because despite how much she begged dad and Grandma to not send her here, they did it anyway.

You'll understand soon, is what they said.