Eve (Last Name Unknown), Patient No. 00052566322. Age: 19.
No, they couldn’t see her. She was invisible, invincible. No, she wouldn’t go. Didn’t want to go with them. They had forced her to put on that dress, the one that always meant death. Electrocution, suffocation, mutilation, whatever torture they had devised. She would have none of it. She didn’t want to go with them, didn’t want to wear that dress made of soft black silk. No, she wouldn’t go. They couldn’t make her leave home behind, leave everything she had ever known to give her life for a people she didn’t give a damn about.
They were dragging her, pulling on her and that awful dress, until she thought it might rip. She hoped it would, because they couldn’t take her if it was ruined. That would never do. They had done everything so perfectly, had made sure every detail was perfect, was in order.
They had perfumed her skin with rose petals, had washed and combed her hair until it shone like polished ivory. They had left it down, because the curls had to be just so or they would all be punished. They had tinted her eyelashes with purple ichors and reddened her lips with lamb’s blood, they had been meticulous. The two men holding her arms, continued to drag her toward the spot that would be her own personal graveyard. The two women behind her carried the gilded box, the one that only dead girls knew what was inside. She tried to dig in her heels, but, without shoes, this was nearly impossible.
Finally, they arrived at the crossroads, the men lifting her stubborn feet until they were on the runes that would keep her there as prey. The two women began the rituals, placing the box at her chained feet.
“We give our souls to the gods of justice and heart.” Began the first woman, winding a silk cord around Eve’s hands so that she could not open the box or tear the dress.
“We give our hearts to the goddess of revenge.” Replied the first man as he gingerly brushed a curl back into place.
“We give this, our child, unto the demons of Hell,” Continued the second woman, weaving a dying flower into Eve’s hair.
“Without the sacrifice of blood we are nothing and nothing remains within.” Finished the second man, a single tear trailing down his leathery cheek. She hoped the man would choke on his tears. Why should he cry when he was the one dooming her to this fate? Shouldn’t she be the one crying now?
She screamed at their backs as they walked away, pleading and begging for mercy, for them to spare her life. They were deaf and mute, never looking back at the girl doomed to die, standing at the crossroads. She couldn’t move, her feet feeling as if they had melted into the worn and cracked stone beneath her feet. She struggled with her hands, trying to untie them… and, and do what? If her feet wouldn’t move, how was she going to escape? What would it matter if her hands were untied if she couldn’t move her feet?
Suddenly, the gilded box began to open in front of her. At first, she tried to look away, certain that if she didn’t look she would be saved. After all, only dead girls knew what lay inside that tiny casket. She wasn’t going to be one of them, she couldn’t die. She was invisible and invincible; no one would ever kill her.
Unable to look away, her eyes drifted over the contents in the box and she let out a cry of agony. Within the box was a broken white rose. Her fate sealed, she stood, lifeless, at the crossroads. Drowning within herself and awaiting the destiny she could not avoid.
In cell number 25, 19 year old Eve died. No outward cause presented itself. She looked so beautiful and perfect, stretched out like the Lily Maid in her boat upon smooth waters. The only strange thing about her was that her hair, which had been blacker than black, had suddenly gone stark white, a dying flower twisted into her hair and a tiny pinprick of blood lay between her breasts.
No, they couldn’t see her. She was invisible, invincible. No, she wouldn’t go. Didn’t want to go with them. They had forced her to put on that dress, the one that always meant death. Electrocution, suffocation, mutilation, whatever torture they had devised. She would have none of it. She didn’t want to go with them, didn’t want to wear that dress made of soft black silk. No, she wouldn’t go. They couldn’t make her leave home behind, leave everything she had ever known to give her life for a people she didn’t give a damn about.
They were dragging her, pulling on her and that awful dress, until she thought it might rip. She hoped it would, because they couldn’t take her if it was ruined. That would never do. They had done everything so perfectly, had made sure every detail was perfect, was in order.
They had perfumed her skin with rose petals, had washed and combed her hair until it shone like polished ivory. They had left it down, because the curls had to be just so or they would all be punished. They had tinted her eyelashes with purple ichors and reddened her lips with lamb’s blood, they had been meticulous. The two men holding her arms, continued to drag her toward the spot that would be her own personal graveyard. The two women behind her carried the gilded box, the one that only dead girls knew what was inside. She tried to dig in her heels, but, without shoes, this was nearly impossible.
Finally, they arrived at the crossroads, the men lifting her stubborn feet until they were on the runes that would keep her there as prey. The two women began the rituals, placing the box at her chained feet.
“We give our souls to the gods of justice and heart.” Began the first woman, winding a silk cord around Eve’s hands so that she could not open the box or tear the dress.
“We give our hearts to the goddess of revenge.” Replied the first man as he gingerly brushed a curl back into place.
“We give this, our child, unto the demons of Hell,” Continued the second woman, weaving a dying flower into Eve’s hair.
“Without the sacrifice of blood we are nothing and nothing remains within.” Finished the second man, a single tear trailing down his leathery cheek. She hoped the man would choke on his tears. Why should he cry when he was the one dooming her to this fate? Shouldn’t she be the one crying now?
She screamed at their backs as they walked away, pleading and begging for mercy, for them to spare her life. They were deaf and mute, never looking back at the girl doomed to die, standing at the crossroads. She couldn’t move, her feet feeling as if they had melted into the worn and cracked stone beneath her feet. She struggled with her hands, trying to untie them… and, and do what? If her feet wouldn’t move, how was she going to escape? What would it matter if her hands were untied if she couldn’t move her feet?
Suddenly, the gilded box began to open in front of her. At first, she tried to look away, certain that if she didn’t look she would be saved. After all, only dead girls knew what lay inside that tiny casket. She wasn’t going to be one of them, she couldn’t die. She was invisible and invincible; no one would ever kill her.
Unable to look away, her eyes drifted over the contents in the box and she let out a cry of agony. Within the box was a broken white rose. Her fate sealed, she stood, lifeless, at the crossroads. Drowning within herself and awaiting the destiny she could not avoid.
In cell number 25, 19 year old Eve died. No outward cause presented itself. She looked so beautiful and perfect, stretched out like the Lily Maid in her boat upon smooth waters. The only strange thing about her was that her hair, which had been blacker than black, had suddenly gone stark white, a dying flower twisted into her hair and a tiny pinprick of blood lay between her breasts.
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