PROLOGUE
Sometimes, I like to dream.
I like to dream of a childhood where I wake up in a cozy bed, in my own bedroom. The bedroom has a mural of peonies and dahlias and forget-me-knots, and every other flower that I can imagine, painted in the most beautiful and vibrant colours. My room has a large window that remains open to the morning sun, and the light dances on the breeze with the fluttering movements of my partially drawn curtains, cascading the room in warm golden hues. The hearth crackles its last dying embers from another blissful night undisturbed, and on its mantle sits an ornately carved music box made of the richest mahogany. I twist the key clockwise several times before opening its lid and letting the melody fly free, and I sway in rhythm to the music, a folk song that speaks of a love unrequited. Locks of auburn move like ribbons as they chase my movements about the room, and my limbs twist and turn and entwine, lost to the ballad of someone else's sorrow that I'll never truly know, someone else's yearning that I'll never understand. Ignorance is bliss. My arms extend, fingers splayed, as I imagine that I am a bird taking flight for the first time, swooping off my perch and cascading down towards the earth. Just as I'm about to make contact with its soil, my wings stretch taut, and I'm lifted up and gusted away into the morning landscape. I fly over forests and rivers, right over the mountains and the back of beyond, into a canvas so beautiful and so achingly tranquil that it tugs at naive heartstrings like angels plucking at harps, forcing me to sway to the solace of my own ingenuous serenade.
Wake up.
I blink and I’m back in my bedroom, safe, staring into my open armoire to find it stocked full of clothes made from an array of fabrics procured from every part of the ventured continent. I close my eyes and trail my fingertips through the clothing, letting my senses take control— guide me. Their scents and textures send ripples up my arm and down into the darkest parts of me, and I ignite. Every dusting of fine hair on my body rises, attentive to the anticipation of a new day. My mind caresses velvets, cottons, linens, and as I continue my tight-lidded perusal I delve deeper into my subconscious, floating on a lake in the wilderness, bathing in the solitude and letting myself sink beneath the murky water's depths. All consuming. Devouring.
Wake up.
I choose a simple cotton dress, its skirts brushing the floorboards as I make my way downstairs and into the kitchen, where my mother is humming the same tune from my music box, swaying idly as she cooks breakfast on the stove. Dimples form on her cheeks as she spies me across the room, the honey colour of her eyes illuminating when they catch the light. Love. There’s so much love in those eyes of gold. Mother wipes her hands on her worn apron wrapped around her frame, and ushers me towards the dining area.
Wake up!
I sit down at the table, my plate already prepared with two other places set opposite. My mother enters with two servants following a respectful distance behind carrying trays of silver. Mother loved to be in the kitchen and would always insist on cooking all meals, and despite the protests, no amount of extra hands would convince her otherwise. Eggs, sausages, bacon, freshly buttered bread, milk and honey… my mouth waters with delight, and just as I reach for my fork the door swings open. A man enters, and I smile, beaming rosy from ear to ear. Father kicks off his boots and makes to shrug off his coat before he is accosted by mother, colliding into each other’s embrace and sharing a moment that should be privy to a young woman's eyes. But I watch the wholesome scene, savouring the happy family before me. My happy family.
Wake…
I’m in the garden now, tending to the flowers. I care for this garden daily, save for the rainy days where instead I play the pianoforte to blithely pass the days away. The garden is a spectrum of hues that contrast against the moody tones of the rolling hills that sprawl around the manor, nestling us snugly within. I find myself in front of the roses, their delicate layers of crimson petals sprawled open wide and greedily basking in the sun’s light. I too, loll in the light of day, enjoying warmth’s embrace across every surface of my skin. I relish in the dirt that cakes beneath my nails, taking pride in my efforts to create something beautiful, something entirely my own. This garden, this home, this family. It was Mine. It was mine, and it carried no worries or cares. It was just simple, sweet…serenity.
Up…
A darkness shrouds the area, heavy clouds encroaching on all that the sun claims and snuffing its light out like water to a flame. I jolt, suddenly finding myself unable to take in air, my hands grasping around my throat in confusion. Rain begins to fall, at first slowly before it cascades down in heavy torrents, and my vision smears as the garden is swallowed up by a deluge of red. Blood. Terror envelops me as I slowly begin to fade, succumbing to the cruel embrace of a death that I wasn’t prepared for. An acrid taste gathers at the back of my throat as something lurches out from within, and I keel over and expel the contents of my stomach onto the sodden ground. Soil plummets to the floor as grit and dirt coat my tongue and get stuck between my teeth on its journey out of me, and the sensation has me retching even more. A deafening roar consumes the land and is my only warning before the ground gives way beneath me and I sink into its depths. I try to scream but I’m still heaving up soil, and my descent into the earth is only made worse by the pool of crimson that sucks me down deeper. I close my eyes in bitter resignation to what seems to be inevitable, praying that my lack of fight will be enough to grant a quick end.
Wake up… now!
My eyes snap open suddenly, and I blink into the oblivion. My heart jumps erratically in my chest, uncomfortable, but a welcome feeling. A feeling that meant that I had finally returned to myself. Confusion accompanied by a splitting headache clouds my mind, and it takes several fluttering heartbeats longer than I care to admit before I begin to dawn on my predicament. On my current situation. The memories of the events leading up to this moment come flooding back. How long had it been this time? The time it took to resurrect was never the same— though it was certainly long enough to get stuck in my head once again. I suppress a shiver. I suppose getting lost in my dreams was far more idyllic than just aimlessly wandering the void. I shift slightly, and realise that I must be laying down somewhere, a bed perhaps. My hands at my sides try to move but are met with a strange resistance. Dirty, thick, resistance.
Hah.
Now I understand why my dream had ended the way it did, given where I’ve now realised myself to be. How utterly boring, I muse to myself, before I begin to wiggle my limbs and torso like a worm through soil. Precisely, like a worm through soil, actually. Being buried underground wasn’t exactly the easiest place to escape from, but I knew who had done this to me, and I was fairly confident that they neither shared the intellect, nor the effort to dispose of me properly. Lazy thugs made lazy gravediggers, and that meant shallow graves. After a bit of a struggle and several unwanted mouthfuls of dirt, I finally claw through to the surface, revealing the moon's light that meanders through the newly formed hole above— a newly formed hole that I was now ungracefully crawling out of. I push up onto all fours and spit out the dirt from my mouth before greedily sucking in gulps of fresh air, and then I pull down the collar of my shirt, revealing eleven tiny vertical lines tattooed onto the right side of my chest. I watch, gritting my teeth through the painful sting of a twelfth tally that slowly appears on my skin next to the others, before letting out a sigh. Twelve times. I’d died twelve fucking times. I absently massage my neck, remembering the dagger that came for me from behind the night before. Tonight would mark the third time I had woken in my own grave after getting stabbed to death. I let out a huff. If I was going to come back to life this many times, the least my murderers could do would be to come up with something more original. I could do with more excitement, death was getting awfully dull. A faint flicker of light catches my attention from my left. A campfire in the thick of the forest I find myself on the outskirts of. I sniff the air, and the tips of my ears prick to the sound of voices carried on the wind. A smile creeps over my face. Five, no, six men.
“Gotcha,” I say to myself, and then I stand up, ignoring the wobble of my legs as I stalk towards the forest.
At last it was time to have some fun.
It was time to reacquaint myself with my murderers.
