(no subject)

[mistresswanda.livejournal.com]

And we'll all dance along to the tune of your death!
We'll love again, we'll laugh again,
and it's better off this way...

(Friday, sometime after the blackness crowded in...)

I am not quite sure what happened;  I was tossing and turning, punching the pillows unhappily and thinking that I should go to the apothocary to get something to help me sleep because I can't carry on like this...

and now I am here, in the graveyard that has yet to be filled.  That's impossible.  It's not real, I only come here when I am...

Oh.

Well, at least I am sleeping.

It's a clear night, the stars a carpet of bright pinpoints against the black velvet canvas of the sky.  It's calm, and it's quiet, and even the baby is still under my hand.  I start to wander about the stones, uncaring if it turns into a nightmare, for I am finally getting some rest.  Besides, I've always found a eerie beauty in graveyards, the stillness mixed with the statuary, and to be honest... when my husband is not here taunting me about it... this place is rather beautiful in it's way.

As I walk, I see a large, solitary monument on a rise, overlooking the rest of the graves.  I don't ever recall seeing it before, so I make my way towards it.  As I come closer, I take note of the large statue that seems to be sitting sentinel over the final resting place of some poor soul.  It is a somber figure, cloaked and imposing, and it fills me with dread.  As I draw near, before I can make out the weathered name of it's future resident, I can see a fresh spray of black roses placed across the statue's lap.  Oh... 

Taking a deep breath, I close the space between myself and this elaborate monument, and once I am standing before it, I drop my eyes to read the name:  Wanda Whitman.  But unlike the other markers... there is a month and a year inscribed into the stone, for my death; the only space missing is the exact date.  But it does not matter really what the date is, for it reads that I shall dieTHIS month.  I shake my head in disbelief and go to touch the swell of my stomach...

but it's flat.  There is no child now.  

I raise my eyes again to the statue to see it's face has changed.  It now resembles my husband's.  An there, on his face; a small, pleased smile hovering on stone lips.

"Oh you bastard!"  I yell at the piece of rock, spinning around and planting my foot against it's smug face.  At least it has the good grace to shatter under the blow.

(Open to Ares)