𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈 : 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫

For three days, you upheld some semblance of normalcy while plotting.

Visitors came and went, as they did the week before, but their company was mainly inconsequential to your memory. Hitch returned to sponge you off. Carla lounged, watching you embroider the crimson dress with black lace instead of the red you originally envisioned. Mrs. Springer brought Sunny and Martin that third and final day with their famous chocolate cake for everyone to share over tea.

Leave it to women and children to be strong enough to grind away at their grief while the men cowered somewhere distant.

Of all the men you knew, only Dr. Yeager visited. For him, it was due to a work obligation rather than a genuine desire to see your disfigured, ugly state. He removed your stitches now that the wound had faded into a thin line. And each day that Dr. Yeager checked on your condition, you refused his morphine.

You would feel the full extent of your pain. You used the aches as tinder under your rageful flame.

On that last morning, you wrote to Dr. Yeager, asking him to leave behind a vial of chloral hydrate. Although he believed you were saving him time from pointless visits each night, as you were responsible enough to pour water and measure your medicine, the sleeping aid was not for you.

Your scheme was wrong. You knew that. But you still waited for the sun to set and hobbled downstairs with your sleeping elixir tucked in your brassiere. Niccolo sat at the dining room table with his head in his hands. A single candle illuminated his face.

Upon realizing you had entered the room, Niccolo snapped up straight. "What are you doing up? You should be resting," he said in disbelief.

You raised your hand to your face, like you were holding a cup, and tipped it to your mouth.

But you were not thirsty. You had a full glass from dinner waiting at your bedside.

Stepping to the cupboards, you pulled out two glasses and eyed around the counter for a full water pitcher. You spotted one on the farthest edge. Careful to block the view of your wrongdoings, you slipped the vial from between your breasts and poured about a teaspoon into only one of the bottoms. Quickly, you snuck the little bottle into its hidden place and filled both glasses with fresh water from the jug.

The laced drink was on the left. The pure one was on the right.

"You should use the bell I gave you for something so simple, but... I suppose it's good that you're strong enough to walk," Niccolo said, but he muttered to himself. "I should be happy, shouldn't I? It's a blessing that you're feeling better so soon."

You walked over and sat across from him with cups in hand. You extended the left glass to Niccolo, politely offering him a drink to close the night. Niccolo took it and drank. You scrutinized each gulp that poured down his throat.

You quietly sat after he drank your concoction. Even inside the house behind shut windows, you hear cicadas singing like sirens from the trees surrounding your home. Every so often, owls hooted, reminding you of their guarding eyes perched in watchtowers along the treeline.

"Did you enjoy the cake?" Niccolo eventually asked.

You nodded slowly at the question.

"That's good. There's more in the kitchen room if you want more. You know, it's funny. Whenever I ask Mrs. Springer for the recipe, she finds a new excuse for not handing it over. 'She eyeballs all her measurements; it's a family secret; her nerves are too frayed to write it all out.' After all these years, you'd think I would have whittled her down."

Niccolo laughed, but it was the torching kind of titter that people only practiced at funerals. When you gave no positive reaction, his smile collapsed in on itself.