Did you know human skin is purple?

I remember meeting her for the first time. It was the middle of winter, first snow. I was in my friend's backyard with a few people when I noticed her. She was wearing a dress. I thought that was extremely odd, yet my eyes were stuck on her legs, slowly turning purple from the cold. I watch her from a distance for a while, hoping she won't notice, but she did. She looked at me with cold, lifeless eyes as she took her bare foot out of the boot and stuck it in the snow (almost as if to get a reaction out of me) then her eyes were glued to it, watching it turn red.
I watched her all day as she played with the snow, like a creature that hasn't seen it before. I imagine that's what the pixies in "The nutcracker" are meant to look like. We didn't speak at all.
She tried to provoke me pretty often after that, always by my side at social gatherings, never speaking a word to me. She did odd things when she knew I was the only one paying attention. I thought I was going insane.
I feel like I’ve been way too vague about her. In all honesty, for some fucked up reason, I started to enjoy it.
When I said weird things, you probably thought I meant making faces at me or stalking too close. No. I soon realized she was more deranged than one would expect from such a girl. This isn’t a love story or a regular piece of fiction. I’m writing this from my prison cell, convicted for the murder of none other than myself.
The weird encounter at Stephen’s? Yeah, I brushed it off, thought some teenage girl was trying to be quirky. At the movies, when she gave me some dragonfly wings? I was confused, sure, but I didn’t think much of it. In retrospect, I should’ve, not that it would protect me, but it would’ve prepared me for what was about to come.
My days went as normal for most weeks�"wake up at 4:30, have my coffee, feed my rats, then head to the uni to teach. I know, I might be forcing too much routine… but between the stress and nightmares this routine was the only thing keeping me slightly sane. I won’t bore you with the details, you’re probably cussing me out for not elaborating on�" Cassandra. No, that’s not her actual name, no, I never asked her. Fine, you want Cassandra. I’ll tell you.

Wednesday, April 9th.
Yeah, I know�"I know. “Why is the date relevant?” Let me finish writing and go look it up.
I was getting ready to go to work at the university downtown. I teach Germanic folklore, so I picked up my book and headed to my car, when I saw them. I dropped my mug and my blood ran cold. The best of the coffee that seeped through the cracks in the concrete didn’t even phase me. No, nothing was as important as what I was seeing- 12 speared ladybugs arranged in a broken circle, I sewers some of them were twitching, the others didn’t have heads. You see, despite teaching folklore I was never a superstitious man, not until April 9th. I made it to my car, locked it, checked it, and got the f**k out of my garage. Someone was there that morning. Someone was there and what they left was a threat.
I drove to work, locked myself in the office and started grading some papers, essays on Germanic myths that prosper in modern times. I thought that work would be a good enough distraction from what I saw. It wasn’t.
Nine, nine, nine. I was freaking out. Was the shock so powerful that I was doing this to myself? The same number was looking at me mockingly from the corner of every page. Maybe I wrote it? No. Maybe the students decided to prank me, make me think I’m insane. I took 10 points from every essay. I know I shouldn’t have, but you would’ve done the same if you were in my position.
The rest of the day was a blur. I went home, the ladybugs were gone, so I brushed it off as a prank, though I wish the feeling of dread would go away.
The next few days were normal, except that knock on the kitchen window, like a beak against glass. I’d wake up in the middle of the night in a cold swear, just to hear that knock, then the bed would shake, wood creaking. Maybe it was earthquakes? Was the lack of sleep and the stress were finally having an effect on me.
I think I mentioned I was stressed way too often, so I’ll tell you why there was so much pressure on my shoulders. The number of people fluent in Old Dutch is small, almost insignificant. No one speaks it in conversations, but about 100 people (if not less) can read it. There were a few letters from about 700 C.E, basic legal things, but they also wanted me to translate the scribbles on an old Bible they found in front of the main office about 6 months from when I was met Cassandra.
Normally translations only take me about one month (yeah I have energy right to brag, tell me when you learn Old Low Franconian) but this one… handwritten messily, words over words… purple ink.
Purple… purple… few things in nature are purple. No animal I know is purple.
My cell is turning purple. Everything is purple. Did you know human skin is purple?