Night stretched over the world as the darkness enveloped her mind. Noon died suddenly as she lay gasping for breath. She was not a strong woman; she was just a girl—an orphan now. The darkness had her. Its presence, real, this death palpable; it was not like sleep at all. She was suddenly, completely alone, and more alone than any living man can know. She was alone even to the point that she had not even herself, not even the myriad parts of her that had always been there. Stripped of clothing, of flesh, of mind, she was naked, truly naked, in the darkness.
Silence followed silence, eternities like crashing icebergs disintegrating into nothing. Atropos may cut, but after that shearing what is left still persists though discarded below the tapestry. But from this floor of the Fates, the darkness will seek its unknowable ends.
The darkness spoke, offering her power, control, and revenge, and like a sponge she was filled with its promises.
The murderers threw the bodies out the door, taking residence in the dead family’s home. They drank as the sun set. Night stretched over the world as she awoke in a ditch, her parents, her brothers, cold and lifeless beside her. She rose with the night, the darkness residing in her.