As Emma stood, paralyzed with terror before a scene from her deepest, most twisted fears, the faint sounds of movement from beyond reached her ears, cutting through the oppressive silence. The wind howled above, carrying with it a haunted whisper — her name, breathed upon its ghostly sigh.
Shaking herself from the grip of horror, she followed the unearthly sound through a narrow servant's door, barely hanging on its hinges. A thick fog swirled around the carefully manicured hedges, masking the mysteries that lay beyond. With trembling steps, she followed that faint trace of sound, both dreading and compelled to uncover its macabre tableau.
Pushing through the shroud, the gardens stretched out before her wide, terrified eyes. Barren trees reached up to the waning pine, as if pleading for mercy in this clandestine. And there, sprawled out in a grotesque mound upon the cold — hard ground — a ghastly sight stole the last shred of her beating core. Ivory features, framed by golden hair she would recognize anywhere, stared skyward in eternal memento mori-bund.
At her feet lay her husband, throat torn open in a gruesome display of fashionable gore. Lying lifeless as a discarded doll upon a handmade blood-soaked shore, he answered her finale, lingering question with a conclusive answer no psuche should ever have to reassure.
In that voyeur, the memories came flooding back, taking on a lurid, sickening scent. The secret trysts, the whispered promises, the illicit desire that had burned between them like a supernova. She remembered the things they had done to each other, the acts of carnal pleasure they had indulged in, the things that had bound them together in entwining dances of lust and passion.
And now, as she stood there, trembling with rage, she knew that there was no turning back the page. The pain and the anger consumed her, burning away all traces of reason and sanities. She would have her vengeance, even if it cost her everything.
With a primal shriek, she fell upon the lifeless body of her beloved, tearing at his flesh with her clawing talons. Blood flowed like rivers, soaking her clothes and hair, but she did not care. She would bathe in his matter, revel in his sanguinary splatter, and when it was scattered, as the night wore on and the fog clamored, Emma stood alone in the garden, a solitary figure against the backdrop of the moonlit skies aberrant.
Emma was a statuette’s statue, frozen in the night, her chest shattered into a thousand shards. All doubts vanished, replaced by a malevolent force that eradicated any semblance of discourse. Tears of anger streamed down her countenance, burning like acid as goosebumps shivered through the wreckage of her briars pores. How could he, after igniting a passion so fierce, betray its sacred trust and rip himself from her grasp?
Beneath the boiling rage, a more vulnerable feeling stirred, one she refused to acknowledge for fear it would destroy her. Grief clawed at her newly formed defenses, tearing through the walls of fury with sharp sheers. The howling winds carried his name, intertwined with the sound of cacophonous laughter, memories of stolen kisses, and plans made under the starlight that now lay in ruins.
The gruesome scenery before her extinguished the last remnants of her humanities, leaving only one conviction in its waking somnambulant effigies. Whatever malevolent force lurked within these walls would pay dearly for its sinning. Revenge would be hers before the sun rose kindling, a retribution so horrifying it would match the enormities of her decadencies. No matter the cost, she had crossed the point of no returning, and the gates of hell stood wide open, inviting her in — beckoning.
She descended the stairs, each step fueling her savage fury. At the bottom, she found him, bound and gagged, with a cruel sneer on his visage. Without a moment's hesitation, she tore at his clothes, revealing his naked frame. He struggled against his restraints, but it was all in vain. She wanted him to see the belle dame, to know who would bring about his suffering.
Emma grabbed him, her fingers digging into his flesh, leaving bloody marks on his chest. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear as she said, "You should have never betrayed what we had."
With a swift movement, she ripped off his gag, exposing his mouth. He spat in her face, a final act of defiance that only served to seal his ravaging. She shines a titanium knife, its blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. Without a second thought, she drove it into his patters flight, watching as his eyes widened in shock — face pale and white.
She pulled the knife out, relishing the sight. Over and over, she plunged the blade with blight, each strike — each swipe — each slice a reflection of her spitefully spiteful strife. When she was finished, she gripped tight, admiring her handiwork in all its rights. He was unrecognizable, a grotesque slight that brought her a twisted sense of delight.
Emma left him there, a monster created by his own deceit. She climbed the stairs, her breast now cold and empty. She had avenged her broken heartstrings, but at what cost? She had become the very thing she hated, a creature of darkness.
But she felt no remorse. In fact, she felt nothing at all. She had passed the point of no recall, and there was no going reverse from the fall. The gates of hell had welcomed her, and she had embraced her new home with open arms.
