What do you think of the start of this short story?

Elizabeth

Elizabeth was small and slight. She had rosebud lips the colour of freshly spilt blood, perfect, porcelain skin, vivid, sparkling, emerald green eyes and constantly flushed cheeks. Flaxen curls tumbled down her clear, slender back and her tiny, white hands were constantly folded in her lap.

Elizabeth lived in a massive, ancient house, that was really more of a mansion than a house, on a steep, weather beaten hill. The house was constructed from smooth limestone that over time had begun to crumble and to be obscured by creeping heather and moss. The once shimmering, ebony black paint of the grand, towering front doors had begun to chip and the once gleaming, bronze doorknobs had begun to rust. The once neatly-kept, ordered grounds of the house had become wild and overgrown. Inch thick grime on the windows concealed the interior of the house from prying eyes if there had been any. Huge, grotesque gargoyles leered down on trespassers from their positions on the mansions’ ramparts. There were four of them and whenever Elizabeth wandered in sight of them her skin burst out in goose bumps.

Elizabeth had drawn the heavy, damask, claret coloured drapes in the library causing a cloud of dust to billow out of them. She then curled up on the moth-eaten, yawning chaise lounge with a book lying open on her lap. She was immersed in this book, so much so that she missed the tinkle of the bell that summoned her to supper. It was only the flickering flame of her guttering candle that alerted her to the hour. She gasped. How could she have let time slip by so quickly? Her parents would whine at and berate her. For some reason sitting around the long, ornately engraved, varnished, mahogany table each night was important to them. Perhaps as it reminded them of their past wealth and grandeur. It was only the last fading reminder, she supposed, let them have it. Supper, for them, had become an occasion. How was Elizabeth to know how much of an occasion supper that night was going to be.

Elizabeth eased open the creaking, library door and tiptoed across the carpeted corridor until she reached her bedroom door. She let out a long, low sigh as she slipped into her bedroom unseen. She shrugged off the simple, muted brown, much-mended dress she had been wearing that day and positioned herself in front of her open wardrobe. She flicked through the items contained within it before she finally settled on one with a fitted waist, low neckline and was a deep, shimmering burgundy. She admired her reflection in the mirror mentally attacking herself for being so pale and frail looking. She glided down the curling staircase her hand sliding along the dust and cobweb covered banister. She was surprised her parents or their sole servant had not come to find her yet. Something either terrible or euphoric had occurred, she decided. She held her breath as she stood in front of the doors that stood between her and whatever news was waiting for her. The groan of the doors sounded enormous in her ears as she stepped into the room. The curtains were drawn and only a few candles were lit lending a gloomy and eerie character to the room. That was the initial thing that Elizabeth noticed as she entered the dining room. The second thing she noticed was that the table was set for four instead of its usual three. It suddenly clicked in her head why no-one had bothered to send for her. Her parents were busy attending to the only guest they would probably receive ages. All eyes were turned away form her though she had just entered the room. This puzzled Elizabeth who was used to attracting and holding the attention of any stranger in the room. She was thus intrigued by this stranger, whoever he or she maybe, before she had even seen or spoke to them.

That was before she had lain eyes on his captivatingly perfect face. He inclined his beautiful head toward her in greeting. She caught a glimpse of his deep, topaz eyes and felt as if she was lost in them, choking in their watery depths. She sketched in the other details of his appearance. She remembered his smooth, sun-kissed skin, his strong, defined jaw and his endearing, lopsided smile. Elizabeth was light-headed and slightly nauseas as she felt his mesmerising eyes following her. She dropped into her seat a the far end of the table to her mother, father and the exquisite stranger. She could not help but feel relieved by the amount space between the stranger and herself. Being near him she felt was a bit like being hypnotised. She would be under his powerful spell and would not be able to help her actions.

Throughout supper Elizabeth remained silent and barely let a morsel of food pass her lips. She also could not keep her eyes from the stranger’s bottomless, blue eyes and his soft, brown skin. Despite herself, despite everything she had been taught as she grew up, she wanted to reach out her hand and stroke his cheek. She resisted though. However alluring he was she could

Part 5. How can I improve this poem?

Perfect Love V

Held in stasis, hearing the
echoes of the damned divine.
Lakes of fire I will not claim.
Love I seek, imperfectly perfect love.

Everything there is made of pain,
authority a dim vision and hated,
reason forsaken for theory there.
Time is the controlling demon and yet
hope is there too, a guttering candle.

Opposing thoughts, clashing ideas,
reckless constancy, bright light darkness.

Deeper than this, do I dare go,
engender in myself destruction,
appeal to courts higher than gods?
The ever-after, the end…
holds no love for me.

I’m torn between writing in thrid person or first?

I can’t decide which way to write… I like both styles, but I’m not sure which one is right for me.

Third person:
It was nearly half-past midnight. The cobblestoned streets were bare and dimly lit by the guttering candle-lamps. Although nearly all residents were tucked in cozily within the safety of their warm, comfortable homes, there was no silence. The unruly town of Brookwich was surrounded by the passing tracks of rushing steam locomotives. Echoes of shrieks and cries never ceased to go off day and night from the archaic building that stood in the heart of town—The Asylum of Brookwich, est.1874.

And there, in an immaculate cell within the juvenile ward, Cornelia lay still; eyes open and unable to shut. Her fingers shakily clutching the iron railings of her bed as the blood-curdling screams pierce her already damaged ears. Sleep. She desperately wanted to shut her eyes and rid herself of the continuous agony, just for a while. The searing liquid they’d injected beneath her skin only hours ago still incited her weak whimpering.

OR…in first person:

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=AifHNrQGDfHiz94OZzbJw9vsy6IX;_ylv=3?qid=20101119231958AAvzfO5

They don’t exactly start the same. What do you think?