Drowning
There is an ethereal, a weary woman.
She lies serene, facing the white ceiling, eyes closed, her back leaning against the brim of the bathtub.
Her onyx-hued, wavy hair floats in the water, soaked and drifting...
Link ink spilled in porcelain.
She is bare, arms resting on the rim of the tub, submerged in the cold.
It is the dead of July night—shrouded in grim darkness, the heavens enraged.
The wind howls. Thunder bellows, shaking the mortal earth. Rain pelts against the window. Branch-like patterns of dire lightning lash across the sky, casting flickers through the gloom of the master bathroom.
A melody stirs... A voice trickles in honey. Echoing against the walls.
She sings—a lullaby, beautiful and sweet—the one she used to hum for her little boy.
She feels the fury of the storm, the roaring thunder. Her gaze lifts to the thorned vines of lightning, their luminescence fluttering across the walls like ghostly wings.
The rain weeps. The wind howls.
Neva sings an aria, and with it, she veils her vision. She sinks deeper into the water's cold embrace.
Her form is pale and numb, yet she does not shiver.
Time slows.
Water dances over her brow like glass threads. She forgets where her body ends and the storm begins.
"Neva?"
"Are you alright?"
A faint voice filters in—muffled and distant.
Neva smiles faintly; her mind is clear.
There's tightness in her chest.
But there's easing in her soul.
She is drowning—and yet, she is flying with the clouds.
"Say something, Neva!"
Loud knocking at the door. Ishmael's panicked voice rises.
"Open the door!"
His fists hammer the wood.
. . . She is helpless; and yet, she is in control.
It suffocates; it liberates.
It aches; and it gives her peace.
With a thundering crash, Ishmael breaks open the door.
He stumbles inside, his black eyes wild with fear.
His throat tightens.
His legs are weak, but he forces his way to her—
To Neva, submerged in the tub.
He plunges his hands into the freezing water and flinches.
Wrapping his arms around her limp form, he lifts her gently, clutching her to his chest.
Her body is bare, her skin ashen and ice-cold.
His breath comes in ragged gasps. With trembling fingers, he brushes aside the wet strands that veil her pale, beautiful face.
Ishmael collapses onto the white tiled floor, cradling her in his arms.
"What have you done?" he whispers.
Two maids stand at the doorway, gasping as they peek inside.
Their eyes fill with horror at what this moment might mean.
The sublime young madam—forever silent, forever cold.
She had stunned them three months ago, when their master brought her home out of nowhere.
And now, she lies lifeless in his arms.
Guilt wraps around their hearts.
Terror claws at their chests.
They bow their heads and step aside as Ishmael rushes past them,
Neva's naked body wrapped in a towel, clutched tightly to his chest.
But her warmth is long gone.