Once upon a time… it was a dark and stormy night.
I used to be better at this. When I told my stories before, people would come from all over Greece to listen to me. But what am I now? A voice. Barely even that. I’m the echo that repeats what you say, but cannot speak my own mind. My body, if I ever had one, has long since rotted away.
I don’t know what’s the worst part about being trapped here. I’m safe from the violence that has ripped through this house, but on the other hand, I couldn’t warn them. All I could do was echo their screams.
I’m not supposed to be here. Everyone thinks that at some time or another, but in my case, it just so happens to be true. At one time, my kind would have been called immortal – but that isn’t true. Even the gods die. Have died. Will die.
What am I, then? I used to be a nymph. A forest nymph, specifically. But it’s been a long time since I ever saw a forest. A long time since I danced among the trees with my sisters. And a long time since I saw… him.
Everything around me now is dark. Black. I exist in the shadows, but I don’t know why I’ve been brought into this old house.
Old. I say it as if the word can be applied to a mere building. A hundred years can pass in the blink of an eye for me. But now, time has slowed. I have no ears, but I can still hear the steady drip, drip, drip. The dripping of water sounds the same as the dripping of blood.
I have no lips, but I can still speak. The words are not my own, of course. That is the curse that has been laid upon me. If my tongue worked, perhaps I would not be here now. I would still be in the forest with my sisters. Or perhaps my soul would have passed into the Underworld. Death makes all equal. Death frees all things.
Something silver glints in the dark, drawing all light towards it as a flame draws a moth towards itself. The hilt of the knife is gripped in a hand; a hand that belongs to the traitor. The betrayer.
I have no eyes, so how can I see his face? And yet, it is as if some magic has returned my senses to me. Am I to bear witness, then, to these murders that have been committed by the man I once loved from afar? Is that to be my final punishment? To see his soul twisted and scarred by hate?
“I know you’re here.”
The words, spoken in the silence, are deafening. If I had legs, I would flee this place… flee the blade he carries in his hand. I mournfully repeat the last of his words. But if I could speak, what would I say?
Narcissus.
Ink of Blood 