Neva is uncertain how many seasons have passed since she was first plagued by evil, her blood polluted by Ishmael and the unseen presences he sired.
Yet it feels like ages ago, everything having long since ebbed away into motes, leaving her consumed by darkness that has endured for forever now.
Her days toil by in bleary hues of colour, her world swimming in erratic shapes reflecting the shifting faces of an unmarked dice.
At other times, silhouettes drift around her in fragments, offering her food, water, books, and paints before floating away with such carefreeness.
If she refuses any of them, Ishmael's cruelty tears the blinds from her eyes, and only when she bleeds does she feel, for a heartbeat, the most alive.
But something happened today.
A maid unwittingly broke a glass while serving Neva lunch, and she thought that hope has finally found its way back to her.
Even if she might have tricked herself into being able to exist within the darkness, this new spark
left her unable to perceive anything but the light.
Before the servant could return to the room with the cleaning supplies, Neva wrapped a shard in a handkerchief and tucked it safely beneath her pillow.
She felt the firm possibility of success in her ruse, and an euphoric serenity flowered within her, leaving no room for fear as she looked forward to his arrival.
Yet almost forgotten was the tightness in her muscles whenever he appeared before her, amidst the relaxed wakefulness that slowly elapsed into evening, until he finally showed up at night.
Her hope withered the moment his unemotional eyes fell upon her, scrutinizing her as he asked how her day had gone. She answered only with silence.
Afterward, he went to take a bath, and she regained herself enough to collude within her mind all the ways she believed her plan might succeed.
But her limbs turned to water when he stepped out of the bathroom and sought to take from her again.
Sometimes, when he seeps into her again, coursing through her veins and into her beating heart, even after she has scrubbed herself raw in a long, coarse bath, the feeling of filthiness haunts her so deeply that she wishes herself dead, if only to escape it.
Sometimes, when she finds herself experiencing even a hint of rottenness, she doesn't mind decaying further in this grave he calls a bed.
Although tonight... after taking a longer, coarser bath in hopes of being clean before her eventual escape, she attempts to make herself an ephemeral illusion.
But after he was done with her and slept beside her, she kept shivering even after his breathing softened into a steady rhythm, for her foot had slipped from the bank of crawling maggots,
and she had drowned in a sonorous pool of blood.
One last time, she thought, repulsed with herself more than with anything else for not being brave enough to carry out her plan before he could touch her. But this was the final night, and she
would never have to endure this again. Never.
She shrank into the abyss again, wishing to exfoliate herself with a rock until every inch of her skin was raw, then scrub herself with a soapy loofah and wash herself with freezing water until she could feel more than clean enough. Her plan was completely new.
Now, she peers into a haze, even as her surroundings are illuminated by the faint white light of the lamp on the nightstand, seated amidst the sheets with her hair draped around her naked form.
Her hand grows clammy around the shard as a metallic scent drifts to her nose, and she dimly realizes that she would not even need a bath, because this body would no longer belong to her.
No matter what she does, she will never be clean enough anymore.
Her hand feels heavy, blood-smeared and motionless as she tightens her grasp around the shard pressed against her wrist.
Blood beads against her skin as the shard presses deeper, and she takes in the slow, hypnotic sensation of pain.
"What are you doing?" a low, groggy voice asks.
Her eyes quiver as her hand stills, her skin prickling as his heat draws nearer.
A soft rustle of the sheets, her heart quickening its beats, adrenaline rushing through her in a dizzying surge, and then the room erupts into motion before she can comprehend what she has done.
A hand seizes her elbow with such force that the bloodied shard falls into the sheets,
smearing crimson across the snowy velvet.
Ishmael remains stiff for a moment while Neva's breathing grows shallow, blood seeping from her wound, smearing across her slightly swollen belly and soaking into the sheets.
He presses his palm hard against the wound to staunch the bleeding before he meets her gaze, his face darkening.
He then knocks the shard from the sheets,
the sharp clatter of glass echoing through the quiet as it shatters against the floor.
With a sharp intake of breath, he whirls on her and seizes her jaw, his grip crushingly tight as black dots begin to crowd the edges of her narrowing vision.
"What is wrong with you?" he seethes, his voice low, and guttural.
Dizziness wraps around her entire being until worm-like, translucent shapes stir and shrink with each slow blink.
Her fingers sub-consciously twitch against his skin as his hand tightens around her jaw, forcing her face closer until she can feel the heat of his breath.
"Why do you hate me so much?" he whispers, his eyes hard and glassy with tears.
Light-headed, blackness threatens to consume her again.
"I know what we should do." His voice slows, a muffled sound reaching her through the distant haze.
"Since we are in so much pain..."
His voice fades away as she glimpses a wildflower meadow, washed in the glow of a warm September noon, while soft, familiar laughter grows clearer with every sussurrus through the trees.
"…we'll… just…" a dallying, deepening voice murmurs.
Cosmos and roses, tinted with prismatic warmth, sway lazily beneath the golden hour as she takes a slow, grounded step toward the
familiar silhouette standing with his back to her.
A sweet breeze rustles through the tall flowers and grasses, and she brushes a few strands of hair from her face as her husband turns around.
A dreamy smile curls across his lips as he leans in to brush a kiss against their son's hair, dark and slightly wavy, soft and a little messy, just like his father's.
Her husband's hair, no matter how many times she has touched it,
always makes her palm itch to ruffle it in adoration.
A smile spreads across her lips as he mouths, "Angel…"
though the word fades before it reaches her ears.
"We'll just have to rewrite everything," Ishmael says.
Neva meets his gaze as he gently caresses her cheek.
"You won't remember," he murmurs, "so you won't suffer anymore."
No.
She tells him, or she tries to tell him, but darkness swallows her and everything turns into nothing.