Novella's nostrils flared, as she listened to her wife.
Annie hadn't visited in the past two weeks. Kaczor went to visit frequently, but Ella would never go any further than the gardens. She'd been carefully writing in a journal, these past few weeks, something she wouldn't let Kaczor read. And that morning was no exception.
The journal went away, until Kaczor left for the day. And Ella set to work, carefully working with rope, that seemed the right length and width. It seemed strong enough...
Today was the day.
No visitors. She'd sent the servants off for the day; with Annie living with Malik, the servants split their time between the homes. It wasn't raining today, it'd been raining since last Wednesday, and rope was slippery in the rain. She wanted to do this right—
She was pretty sure her wife wasn't coming home until late. So, around lunchtime, she slipped back into the garden, a quick peek over the high privacy fence to ensure nobody was heading over to chat. Sometimes the neighbors did that.
Tossing the rope up across a branch, she braced herself on it, testing the branch. It'd hold.
Next she had to pull the stool from the kitchen outside, the heavy wood left splinters in her fingers. She wouldn't notice that later.
Next, she carefully arranged the journals she'd been writing in. Each of their covers said a name. Malik had a journal. Malachai. Kaczor. Annie. She laid them on one of the outside tables, so that they'd be out of the way, safe and sound. The edges of Kaczor's journal seemed to have other pages slipped inside; legal documents, likely.
She wasn't going to be rude, and leave her wife prepared. There was paper for a trust; the money Kaczor had paid when they'd married, set aside for Annie. Paperwork detailing the name of the funeral home that would cremate her. More paperwork detailing the jewelry they were to make her ashes into for her wife and child.
Once she was certain everything was to rights, she let her hands drift along the thick length of rope, noosed by her own hands, and stepped up onto the stool. As she kicked the stool away, she didn't kick it quite far enough—and had to kick it again.
The rope was coarse against her neck—and the last thing she remembered thinking about, was that the tree wasn't tall enough. And she was going to die slowly. She didn't want to die slowly, and the way she clawed at her throat, trying to pull the necklace of rope up and away, showed that.
But gravity has a funny way of taking your breath away.
@Kaczor Tilani
No. I've already found her. At Rosehelm Cemetery.She was silent, staring at the child as it played with her wife. And after a while, she'd leave the room, departing to sit in the gardens. She spent a lot of time in the gardens, these days. Reading, planting, simply sitting and existing.
Two Weeks Later
Annie hadn't visited in the past two weeks. Kaczor went to visit frequently, but Ella would never go any further than the gardens. She'd been carefully writing in a journal, these past few weeks, something she wouldn't let Kaczor read. And that morning was no exception.
The journal went away, until Kaczor left for the day. And Ella set to work, carefully working with rope, that seemed the right length and width. It seemed strong enough...
Today was the day.
No visitors. She'd sent the servants off for the day; with Annie living with Malik, the servants split their time between the homes. It wasn't raining today, it'd been raining since last Wednesday, and rope was slippery in the rain. She wanted to do this right—
She was pretty sure her wife wasn't coming home until late. So, around lunchtime, she slipped back into the garden, a quick peek over the high privacy fence to ensure nobody was heading over to chat. Sometimes the neighbors did that.
Tossing the rope up across a branch, she braced herself on it, testing the branch. It'd hold.
Next she had to pull the stool from the kitchen outside, the heavy wood left splinters in her fingers. She wouldn't notice that later.
Next, she carefully arranged the journals she'd been writing in. Each of their covers said a name. Malik had a journal. Malachai. Kaczor. Annie. She laid them on one of the outside tables, so that they'd be out of the way, safe and sound. The edges of Kaczor's journal seemed to have other pages slipped inside; legal documents, likely.
She wasn't going to be rude, and leave her wife prepared. There was paper for a trust; the money Kaczor had paid when they'd married, set aside for Annie. Paperwork detailing the name of the funeral home that would cremate her. More paperwork detailing the jewelry they were to make her ashes into for her wife and child.
Once she was certain everything was to rights, she let her hands drift along the thick length of rope, noosed by her own hands, and stepped up onto the stool. As she kicked the stool away, she didn't kick it quite far enough—and had to kick it again.
The rope was coarse against her neck—and the last thing she remembered thinking about, was that the tree wasn't tall enough. And she was going to die slowly. She didn't want to die slowly, and the way she clawed at her throat, trying to pull the necklace of rope up and away, showed that.
But gravity has a funny way of taking your breath away.
@Kaczor Tilani
10-25-2024, 01:44 PM
