Asphodel
an excerpt

Little Red Riding Hood did not wear a red cape, or a red cap, nor even a red scarf. She wore a red wool sweater. A sweater that someone had given her long ago, its cuffs now sewn up with singularly mismatched brown yarn. Apparently she'd worn it so often that the cuffs had frayed under her fingers, fingers that now curled around the little unruly bump that the brown yarn made at the end of her sleeves. She hadn't any red yarn to sew the cuffs up at the time, she remembered.

She remembered sewing up the cuffs herself with the brown yarn, and not having any red yarn. It was one of a few bright, clear spots in her otherwise foggy memory.

For instance, apparently The Wolf had been by already because there was a dead man lying on the ground beside her, covered in blood. He looked fairly mangled and bloody to her, anyway, though she was no expert on mangled and bloody. At least, she didn't think she was. His head was at an odd angle respective to his shoulders, and she wondered, idly, what color his hair was under all that blood as she bent down to pick a few stray flowers that were growing by his head. The flowers were white, and star-shaped, with crimson lines running the length of each petal. She wondered what sort of flowers they were. Her head hurt badly, especially when she bent to pick the flowers - not to mention her ribs and shoulder - but she clearly wasn't in as bad a shape as the man lying on the ground.

She sat down, her bare feet against the red-painted metal of the car she'd found herself inside when she woke up. She leaned back against the tree that seemed to have stopped the car from going any further. "Seemed," because she didn't really remember that, and she thought that she ought to remember something that disastrous. She had been wedged into the seats, fortunately preventing any serious injury. She'd found herself curiously devoid of memory and of shoes upon waking, but it didn't take someone with much experience to think it was a good idea to crawl out of a flaming car wreck.

It was strange - she remembered cars, she remembered car wrecks, but she didn't remember much of anything about herself. She mused on this detachedly as she began to weave the flowers she'd picked into a wreath for her hair. An odd thing to do, considering the circumstances, but the only thing she could think to do.