The sky was dark the night my father was killed. The servants had just lit the nightlights, and the flames flickered happily in our windows. I was barely two years old when it happened, but I remember everything. I remember the sticky night air dripping with the scent of honeysuckle. I remember hearing the hushed whispers of frantic servants. The noises carried through the house, making the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I remember the sound of my father's footfalls crossing to open the door.
An unnatural silence filled the house, as the door creaked opened. Then, I heard her voice. It was sweet like honey, promising everything and asking nothing. It drew me from beneath my covers. I had to see the face that went with that voice. As I padded across my room, Father hushed her, and forced her outside our home. Dressed in a white nightgown, I inched toward my window, shrouded in darkness. I stood on the tips of my tiny toes peering over the ledge.
The shadows painted a pattern of black lace across her form, but I could still tell that she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Thick golden hair fell in long waves beneath the hood of her black cloak. As she spoke, full ruby red lips shone like they were covered with dew. Her skin was like that of a fine doll's perfectly smooth. But her eyes were angry.
As they spoke, the woman became more agitated. Her beautiful face contorted with rage.
The only thing I heard my father say was, No. He wasn't unkind. It didn't sound like he was chastising one of the servants, or rebuking her. He sounded pained, like he didn't want to say the word. But he did.
That single word shattered my world.
Before he finished speaking, the woman lunged at my father. One fist was at her waist, while the other hand grabbed my father's shoulder. She looked into his eyes as she thrust the blade into his stomach and twisted. Scarlet poured from the wound, spattering on the dirt at his feet. The woman released him. Without a scream, my father fell to the ground, dead.
Before my tiny lips could scream, the woman's gaze turned upward to my little body, watching from the window.
I disappeared from my home that night. Not a soul saw the woman pluck me from the window, and carry me to the stone tower deep in the woods. Every night since, I dreamed of a beautiful woman stabbing my father. Every night was the same.
The screams that no one shrieked the night of his death rang out deafeningly loud in my dreams, waking me with my heart beating so fast that I thought it would burst. The dreams did not cease. And I grew older, alone, locked away from the rest of the world, with a murderer as my only companion.
