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LIFE AFTER DEATH
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WE WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO BE HEROS, WE WERE JUST KIDS
( 1993, post wizarding war I. ) MARELLA WAS SLOWLY DROWNING in bitter darkness, the cold wash of familiar faces soaking her murky insides, forcing her to remember each minor detail that grazed their complexion, to feel every gut-wrenching memory which was now lost in the spiral of time, reminding her there was nothing she could do to save the lives already lost. Her mind was an artist, able to trace each of them to extreme accuracy, creating a sorrowful piece of art holding the family she'd accumulated once - from each mark curving their dead structures, to their piercing smiles she'd once treasured in her now-shrivelled heart.
Marella longed to shut her eyes, to border herself around towering walls and block the intimate ghosts from ever entering her head again, but that was impossible, merely a dream she would never receive - for as long as she breathed, she would carry the burden of their fate on her own, blood-stained hands.
She was a lost pilgrim, lurking the earth with the infectious disease of death on her debilitated shoulders, though she hardly moved now. Strained to her messy apartment, which consisted of ashy cigarettes and bottles of empty liquor, tiny specks of litter which scattered themselves across the dim-lighted space, and with time, she had soon found herself making friends with the darkness.
There was a sense of serenity amongst it, and whilst most feared what laid beneath the blanket of pure, divine light, Marella had long stopped caring, and in brutal honesty, she preferred the shadows. The strokes of black intertwined themselves around her lacerated skin, stringing her further into the abyss, as if she were a piece of meat prey had just caught, and maybe she was, but it didnt seem to matter, because at least she wasn't alone anymore.
A mad woman, that's what people had taken to calling her, whether it was from the various strangers who banged at her wooden door, shouting prejudicial slurs and other words she'd heard all before, or as she merely crossed the street, head down low, desperate to slip into a state of invisibility.
