A TALE OF BLOOD AND INK

Prologue

Nothing broke the oppressive silence apart from the delicate creaking of the wooden floorboards under little feet. Gentle footsteps, one soft sound after the other. Then it was deadly silent again.

Like every night, she could find no quietude. Although she longed for nothing more than to finally be able to sleep - perhaps even forever. And like each night, she began to wander through the house, exploring every single inch of it anew, feeling how it had once been before she had turned it into her own prison.

Finally, she remained in his room, which, like the other ones, seemed dead and empty, cold and forbidding, as if no one was wanted in here, not even herself. It had served its purpose and was now no longer needed. But nothing could change the fact that she needed it. Irrationally. Madly.

As she did every night, she let her fingers slide carefully over the unused sheet, hoping to see a faint imprint in the pillow, though she knew it no longer existed and would never exist again. The bed would remain untouched as it was now, for no one was left to sleep in it.

Nothing had been changed here since then as if the house had been left in haste. On the bedside table still lay the book that nobody would finish reading. Over the back of the chair hung neatly a shirt in which she buried her face, just hoping to catch the scent of his smell – a warm, slightly savory scent, which blended with that of smoke and tobacco. But she didn't know if it actually existed or was just a figment of her imagination.

On a small table sat another ashtray and a silver cigarette case with a noble engraving. A few times already, she had bought the same that used to be in it. The ones she had seen him put between his lips so many times. She did not even smoke them but only watched the smoke draw figures in the air while the smell took her back in time. Although, she wanted to escape exactly that: this horrible past. This nightmare of what had been her life. Was that not absurd?

With trembling hands, she reached for the book she always took with her here, lowered herself gingerly, almost as if in awe, onto the chair, and flipped it open. Aloud, in a soft voice, just as she had done in those days when every single word was a piece of hope for her, she read. And if it only lasted until sunrise, gave her at least those few hours of security, then that was already more than most could wish.

As she read, she tried to recall his reactions. What had he said to this? How had he looked at her? Had he looked at her at all or had his eyes been closed?

For a second, she traveled back in time, to moments she had always wanted to escape. But now that they had irrevocably passed, they wouldn't let her go, haunted her more than ever. She arrived at the newest pages of the book, the last lines of which she had written tonight, almost feeling the excitement. Would he like it? What would he think? Slowly she uttered the last sentence and raised her eyes, almost as if she had still succumbed to the foolish hope that he would suddenly lie before her on the bed and listen to her attentively as if he had never been away. Of course, he was not there.

All of a sudden, she realized that there was no one left to listen to her. Not in this way.

She had written for a dead man and hoped for ... what exactly? That he would unexpectedly be here again and would listen to her as he did back then? That he would perhaps keep her alive one more day?

However, her future lay no longer in his hands but in hers.

That had to end once and for all. She couldn't go on living like this, more in the past, a terrible one, than in the present. He was dead and would remain so. Never again would she give him the chance to have power over her. Not beyond his death. She was free after years of fear and pain. Why should she continue to make herself a prisoner?

That night, she banished everything that even remotely reminded her of him. This time she locked the door to his room for good. It should remain the last place he was allowed to exist – locked away, hidden.
But through it all, she forgot one thing: He never really left. He was still here, in every corner of the house and her thoughts.

For all these feelings would keep breaking in on her. Once again, she felt trapped in hell.

The cold on her skin.

The drone in her ears.

An acrid smell.

Screams.

Gunshots.

It was no mere memory that haunted her. She was there for those few heartbeats, could see, smell, and feel all the old impressions as if she had been transported back to that dark place.

The return to reality seemed nearly impossible. Maybe the devil, who had once had her in his clutches, did not want to release her even now. Never again. Always, he would lead her by the hand. They existed together, side by side. Being free would mean losing herself. There was no life, no her without him.

Like every night, she dreamed of him and felt him still reaching for her through time, unwilling to let her go ever again.