Marika Lynn

Violet’s Black Book

The automatic doors of the hospital swished open, blasting Violet’s face with warm air. She marched through the entrance, heading directly for the ICU, smoothing her hair, which reflected, raven-blue, under the fluorescent lights. She felt buzzing dry electricity of winter prickling through her. Vi was wearing black, as always—a black turtleneck, tucked into black pants, and a long black sweater that trailed out behind her as she walked—like Dracula’s cape, a witch, or a New Yorker.