As if he were the author of my fate, he carried me to the warmth of his cottage, where I lived my death beneath the weight of his gaze.

The place Death sent me to was a vast coffin suspended between the whispers of past memories and the frozen stillness of yesteryear grief, a liminal space where the old time seemed to collapse. A bohamian haze softened the vile scene, where bloody ropes painted an odd canvas. While in it walls,walzed my name bold and obsessive.
My host, a refined peace of shadow, cloaked in irony. He scribed ,with a pink flamingo feather, and on his parchment of authentic narrator, the deep thoughts he holded.
Revenge now a poet, can weave words weighed down by his conscious. Here in his sanctuary, I was neither guest nor prisoner, I was the relic of his obsessive artefact. Vengeance was his art , but I was his unique masterpiece.

Before me was the screen, the veil that sang hummed screams, and the dirge of my mortal soul. Twelve winters have been past since the fateful meeting with my husband started.
And now, I fly in the heavy atmosphere stitched to the walls by those tightened strings wating for the plot twist of my lifetime to show up.

The screen flickered to life, replaying my twelfth birthday night and showing up the pendulous shadow of my father, my mother's drunken despair, and the first avenge appetizer my adrenalin savored.

The twelfth chapter of Machigai's Tale:

The clock trucked midnight as I trudged home. Solitude, my only companion, held firmly my hands with squelettique fingers as we both wandered through the gloomy alleys. My weary steps echoed the weight of my arduous maid job.
A trace of pride stirred my childish and naive soul as I walked the street where the night hummed loud melodies. Believing that the sacrifices I made for the survival of my family were a testament to my courage and boldness, I lost myself in a vague, misleading dream, where me, the daughter of humble creatures, sharing the same destiny as Cinderella.
I thought the world would crown my struggles with glory, as if the weight of hardship could blossom into triumph.
But the vivid reply I received as soon as the door to my crumbling home opened wasn't troubling; it was blunt, like a cold gust of wind cutting through my heart. It is better to be shaken awake from the fleeting illusion of joy and face the darkness of my own conscience than to remain forever trapped in the haze of unattainable happiness.

Before my pupils, a scene of abandonment unfolded. A father who vanished like a dark steam in the cold twilight. He blindly gifted his heart to death, hanging his body to the celling until he depraved his soul of air.My only glare metamorphosed into a shadow feeding on my splinters of woe. Each of my tears was a silent scream that shattered the core of my pain. My calm reaction was a sign of defeat, a peaceful assimilation of broken hopes.

Alcohol, it's in this venomous river of hallucinations that my progenitor was drowning, she drank to escape. She was a failure on earth and a powerless on her own illusion. I hated her - I abominated the way she let herself decay, the way she flooded her blood on venom, abandoning the love I desperately needed.
Next to her was a masculine silhouette. He elegantly stood on a tender position, delicately offering her a caress on the cheeks. He betwished her gaze with his silver irises.

My mind was a vast alley of dreary ideas, and as I intermingled a knife that I identified as the sword of my fate, I intesly jabbed its blade into my mother's organs. Her drunken cries and despair became a melodious symphony of pleasure. The silent movements were rhyming with my satisfaction.
Each act was expressing my incomprensible emotion of thrill.
As I reached my twelfth stabbing gesture, a twinkle spread across my facial expression.

It is for my peacefulness bearing that Revenge crowned me as his loyal wife.