Twilight turned to midnight.
I stayed vigil, moving slowly between the six graves. My bloodless lips whispered as I read aloud their horrific epitaphs.
Farewell to Mary Weaver
Long ye may rest in solitude and reap the havoc in which you sowed
My heart broke at the thought of my grandmother and great-great-grandmother enduring such a life.
Herein rests the soul of Bess Weaver
Her only redemption was paying her debts
The oldest looking tombstone had the simplest carving but the one with the worst desecration of a dead soul.
The corpse of the Wicked Weaver who started it all
Wife to a traitor, mother to a whore
I couldn’t forgive. I couldn’t forget. I couldn’t even comprehend how I could ever set eyes upon the Hawks again without wanting to slaughter them with my bare hands. My rage fed me better than any material sustenance.
I wished I had magic; a potion to strike them all dead.
Every murmur that escaped me, every incantation and promise, worked like a spell.
My whispers wrapped around me like a cocoon—turning my tenderhearted naivety into a chrysalis where I rapidly evolved into a monster as bad as them.
I threw myself into darkness. I traded any goodness I had left for the power to destroy them. And with each chant, I chained myself deeper to my fate—cementing me forever to my task.
I didn’t want food or water or shelter.
I didn’t need love or understanding or connection.
I wanted retribution.
I wantedjustice.
No one came to get me. If they cared I was missing, no Hawk came to corral me back to my prison.
In a way, I wished theywouldcome. Because then my removal from my dead family would’ve been a justified struggle. I would’ve screamed and cursed and fought so hard, I would’ve drawn their blood.
But they never came.
So, I had to swallow my bitter resentment and plod back to purgatory on my own accord. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t scream.
I had to deliver myself willingly back into the devil’s clutches.
By the time I entered my quarters, I shook so hard I was sure my teeth were chipped from chattering so badly—from cold and from horror.
I didn’t recognise the woman inside me. Something had switched permanently and any facet of the little girl—the twin who’d always believed in fantasies—had died upon that patch of earth.
I’d been destroyed, yet my eyes remained dry. Not one tear hadbeen shed. Not one sob had come forth.
I’d become barren. No longer able to display emotion or find relief from the pounding terror of seeing proof of my ancestor’s demise.
The diamond collar around my neck disgusted me and the weight seemed to grow heavier with every breath, sucking me deeper into hell.
Struggling to remove my sweat-dried exercise gear, I barely managed to crawl into the shower. Gradually, I turned my blood from snow to spring—thawing out the phantoms that now lurked within.
