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I would give anything, at this very moment, to suffer alone. To be alone, in this prison, seemed much better than rotting away in one corner of our crowded dungeon. It was no surprise that I wished to bleed out at the hands of my captor in the blissful silence that his teeth brought. To ease into blank nonexistence.
It felt like something that should be solitary—my inevitable death at the hands of the Count.
But it wasn’t. The brides, whose jealous hate crept toward me like the veins of nitrate in the walls, would watch with glee. I was a gladiator and they, the Romans. All I could do was wait for the lion, all pride and teeth, to put me out of my misery.
I smelt her before I saw the set of feet, white and dirty, shuffle towards me. The oldest of the brides stood before me, once tall and beautiful. But with eyes glazed white and her dress hanging off her bony shoulders, she was more monster than not. Her lips parted in a sneer, a heinous red gash against her white skin, and were moving. She was saying something, but it was getting lost in the stone cavern that was the dungeon.
“I don’t speak Romanian,” I said. My voice sounded cold and dry, and it seemed to upset the bride who hissed, raining spittle on me. I felt a surge of anger as I wiped the red-tinged saliva from my face. I stood and squared my shoulders, giving her a sneer. I dug through the back of my mind, desperate for anything to say to her. I had known little Romania when I first arrived and the Count spoke in such fluent, beautiful English. I had not needed to use it in weeks. Finally, hidden in a corner of my mind, I found the words I searched for.
“Dragu-ti pizda,” I spat. The entire world seemed to pause for a second as the cogs of her rotting brain began to turn. I could see, much to my amusement, the moment in which it clicked. She howled and lurched, ashen hands reaching for me. I stepped to the side and her hands slammed into the wall first, crumbling under the force. Her balance all but gone, her skull hit the wall next. With a sickening crunch, her brittle skull caved in and she slid down the wall. She was twitching like fresh roadkill as she rolled over onto her back and turned her head toward me. I looked down at her, my heart quiet. I couldn’t stop myself as I put one of my feet onto her arm and pressed.
It would be a kindness to put her out of her misery.
The amount of pressure it took to shatter the bride’s bones was minuscule. She was so fragile that it seemed like gravity itself should have rendered her to dust. But the task was mine, so I set my foot onto her bicep and pressed. Limb by limb, I rendered the bride into nothing but a pitiful, moaning creature. If she had ever been like the Count, you couldn’t tell now.
“I wondered when you’d finally rid me of the woman,” the Count said, and I turned to look over my shoulder. He loomed over me, impressive in height and build. He walked past me and I smelt the frankincense he burnt on him like cologne. The gentle breeze his heavy velvet cape created sent a shiver down my spine. He chuckled, a warm sound from deep in his chest, and produced a wooden stake from under his cape. He positioned it over her crumbling ribcage, spared me something akin to a smile, and drove the point in. The woman screamed--or at least tried to--before her body disintegrated. I pulled the hem of my dress to cover my face and hide from the smell.
“Hardly a Bride anymore, don’t you agree?” I nodded, starting to realize what I had done. I had started the falling of the dominos that lead to her death, and I felt no regret for it. How odd. I’d been down in the dungeon too long.
“Can I come up from here yet?” He turned to me and smiled, a full smile this time. Like the happy lion staring a lone antelope in the eye.
“Of course. We’re going to be taking a trip soon after all, and I would hate to leave you behind.” He looped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me to his side. He felt cold and firm through his shirt, the scent of incense just strong enough to cover the scent of fetid meat. “You’re coming to the new world with me.”