RESURRECTION, t. shelby.

chapter one.

𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗲:          bedlam.

                    𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀          diana dreams that she dies. with only a single barred window in her cell, the nights intertwine like a running thread, weaving each passing day and evening together until they're completely devoid of time. there isn't a single clock or ticking watch for her to measure them. 

she remembers a story that her mother once told her; the tale of the pesanta. a demon that crawls onto someone's chest as they sleep, weighing them down and stealing the breath from their lungs. diana's mother taught her that this is how nightmares are created. that the fear caused by each stolen breath fills their mind with blood-curdling horrors sent by the devil himself — until the body can finally pull itself out.

perhaps diana's body can't pull her out anymore.

every time she awakens, the nightmare continues. diana can still see billy kimber in the lingering shadows that inhabit the corner of her cell like a phantom clawing at her back. he's in every one of her nightmares. and in each nightmare, he holds a gun or a shovel — burying diana in blankets of her own blood and cold, bitter dirt.

the light pouring through the barred window above hints at the break of morning, with the distant hum of songbirds spilling against the walls of hollymoor asylum. diana's body resembles more of a corpse, curled into the hollow of her bed, her limbs jutting out like overgrown vines. perhaps if it weren't for her shuddering breaths and the rare groans provoked by her latest nightmare, one would think she is dead and rotting in the confines of her cell.

but this time is different: this time, diana's thin and sunken body is not jolted awake by the bellowing shot of kimber's pistol, or the echoes of her screams as he buries her alive in the fruitless belly of an abandoned grave. no — this time she is awoken by the heaving tremor of her cell door being opened.

if it weren't for her complete ignorance of the time, she would find it odd. it's too early for the guard to open her cell for breakfast call, yet too late in the day for the last cell check. with heavy eyelids and dazed bewilderment, diana's forehead twists into a knot as she slowly sits up. her skin, coated in dry sweat, is cooled by the bitter dawn wind curling into her cell.

she looks up. a plump guard with a swollen belly steps in, his heavy footsteps echoing against the tiles. his hand is poised across the wooden truncheon hanging from his belt, and the other grasps at a metal ring of fluttering keys. there is only one reason why guards would come into their cells unannounced — diana is well aware of this.

she recoils until the sharp bones of her back hit the cold tile wall, pushing herself as far back across her bed as she can. her hands tug her cotton hospital gown down, now damp with sweat. she believes his name is henry. she has not heard any passing rumours of this particular guard assaulting patients; from her experience, he is one of the more benevolent guards at hollymoor. but diana has no room for trust or false hope anymore.

wild eyes scour the rotting carcass of her cell as she tries to find some means to defend herself with. she suddenly feels a wave of claustrophobia, like a rat caught in the grasp of a wire trap. her fingers cling to the tattered sheet of her bed as she pulls her knees to her chest as if to disappear into herself — but there's nowhere to hide.

   "you're getting out, kimber." his voice is hoarse and gravelly like scraping rocks. his hand curls around his truncheon, but it seems to be more out of fear of diana's irateness than a suggestion of his own volatility. the young woman remains still and unwavering like a deer caught in the headlights of an automobile.