Erzsébet

Atop the single room in the tower where she's incarcerated, her tableau remains as she's left it each night for the past three years: Tattered curtains drawn back to frame a gibbous moon; a withered clutch of roses tied together with a black ribbon and carefully placed inside a pewter vase; a rusty candelabra sheds beeswax and faint light onto a blackened mahogany table with matching chair; an onyx inkwell; a small curved knife; and one sharpened quill strategically placed alongside a blank piece of parchment. Her bloodied faded draperies no longer cling to her frame like they did every night for the first forty-two of her fifty-four years... or like that first night she waited - breathless - until he came into her bridal chamber with a whip in his hand and fire in his eyes.

Now seated, she takes up the quill, dips it into the inkwell, and then frowns as she withdraws its unsaturated tip. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to release a flow of tears. She rises from the chair and positions her left eye over the inkwell's opening. The tears drip inside. After a few moments, she closes the lid, carefully picks up the inkwell and swirls the contents with shaking hands.

Reseated, she opens the lid. Her heart clutches... stops... and then flutters to life with an irregular, panicked beat. The hand holding the now-dripping quill pauses over the parchment. She closes her eyes again to steady herself. She knows her time is near, but she is not willing to give in to the summons just yet; she begins to write. The soft scratch of the quill against the parchment soothes her nerves.

She puts down the quill. Her eyes fall on the knife. She eagerly picks it up and places the knife edge against the moonlight falling through the window. The sweet lure of blood beckons.