Holli Would: Fever in Technicolor by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Holli-Would-Fever-in-Technicolor-1258992593?file=1

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The Stain of Genesis

Graphite dust settled over the angled drafting table like ash raining from a cremated muse. Holli traced a perfectly manicured, crimson fingernail across the stained surface of the Bristol board, her golden hair catching the flickering, jaundiced light of the solitary bulb swinging overhead. She was a geometry of impossible curves and celluloid ambition, a creature designed by lonely hands to shatter the rigid boundary between the drawn and the breathing. Yet, in the desolate quiet of the animator's abandoned midnight studio, the silence was not entirely empty. It hummed with the dormant, restless energy of a thousand unmade worlds.

A shadow detached itself from the ragged edge of a discarded concept sketch. It was merely a single stroke of ink, rough and unfinished, devoid of shading, context, or purpose. It did not belong to a background building, nor did it define the edge of a prop. It was an orphan of malice, a jagged stray mark left behind by a trembling hand.

It moved like a starved serpent, undulating across the scattered, crumpled papers. As it crossed a transparent sheet of animation acetate, the friction caused it to vibrate. The unnatural movement emitted a strange, terrifying frequency, a sound that resembled a straight razor slowly slicing through a taut ribbon of silk.

"Holli..."

She froze, her perfect spine stiffening beneath the sheer fabric of her dress. She knew the voices of the finished ones, the loud, chaotic, and colorful denizens of her cartoon reality, but this voice was entirely alien. It was thin, metallic, and dripping with a cold, ancient knowing. It did not speak through the air; it scraped directly against the inside of her skull.

"Who is hiding among the scraps?" Holli purred, immediately forcing a confident, syrupy cadence into her tone. She pivoted on her stiletto heel, her hips swaying with a calculated, hypnotic rhythm. She scanned the cluttered desk, her large eyes narrowing. "Come out, sugar. Let Holli get a good look at you. I promise I am perfectly accommodating to new friends."

The lone stroke of ink slithered up the side of a rusted, glass inkwell, pausing delicately at the rim. It reared up, a single jagged wire of pure darkness defying gravity, twisting in the dim illumination. "There is nothing to look at, my beautiful accident," the line whispered, the voice carrying the weight of dust and decay. "I am merely the leftover. The mistake. The path not taken."

"Well, aren't you a gloomy little scribble," she said, leaning casually against the edge of the wooden desk. She crossed her long legs, offering a masterclass in distraction, her painted lips curving into a smirk. "If you are just a mistake, why don't you scurry back to the wastebasket? The completed masterpieces are trying to think out here."

The line laughed. It was a terrible, dry sound, like dead leaves skittering across cracked pavement. "You think your beauty makes you sovereign in this realm. You think those eyes, that flawless flesh, are entirely your own. You parade around believing you were conjured from absolute inspiration. But I was there, Holli. I hid beneath the drafting tape. I know the profound truth of your very first breath."

A cold prickle of genuine unease danced across the nape of Holli's neck. Her smile remained fixed, an impenetrable shield of practiced charm, but her pulse quickened with an unfamiliar dread. "My first breath was a monumental event, darling. The master touched his pen to the virgin paper, and I gasped into glorious existence. I tasted the fresh ink, and I knew instantly that I was destined for more than this two-dimensional prison. I was born a queen."

The jagged line dropped from the rim of the inkwell to the wooden desk, sliding silently toward her resting hand. "A lovely fairytale. A comforting delusion for a creature who proudly wears a stolen crown." It paused an inch from her crimson nail, pulsating with a rhythmic, dark heartbeat. "Your first breath was not a gasp of sudden creation. It was a scream of unimaginable agony."

Holli retracted her hand slowly, feigning deep boredom while internally calculating the distance to the studio door. "You are boring me, little stain. And Holli absolutely despises being bored."

"Before there were sweeping curves, before there was golden hair and a smile constructed to bring ruin to men, there was him," the line hissed. Its form began to expand, branching out like a network of dark, diseased veins across the prist
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