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𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠: thus always to tyrants - the oh hellos
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In the whispering alleys of Small heath, there used to be tales spun from the smoke of factory chimneys and the echoes of cobblestone streets. Some whispered that the virtuous souls, their deeds woven in goodness, would find solace in the tender caress of light beyond life's curtain. Others, however, warned of a darker fate for those steeped in wickedness, their journey's end marked by the consuming embrace of fiery infernos.
Marianna James used to found herself pondering the enigma that awaited her beyond mortal realms. These thoughts bolstered during the span of a year, she danced a delicate tango between shadows and light, executing clandestine tasks for the king and along the gangster Alfie Solomons while offering her heart to charitable endeavors in equal measure.
In the labyrinth of her thoughts, Marianna often pondered: if time comes and death comes standing face to face with her, would her eyes flutter open to the gentle embrace of that promised breeze, carrying whispers of absolution? Or would the fiery tongues of judgment lick hungrily at her heels, condemning her to a fate scorched in crimson flame?
As consciousness tiptoed back to Marianna, fate's hand dealt her a peculiar twist. A cacophony of voices swirled around her, like a brewing tempest within her mind. Murmurs, like mischievous spirits, danced and evolved into a tumultuous crescendo of chatter, escalating into a symphony of anguished cries that seemed to penetrate her very bones.
They were cries of agony—the voices—rending the air, their torment seeping into Marianna's trembling form as she struggled to pry open her heavy eyelids. What greeted her hazel eyes was neither the fiery infernos of judgment nor the gentle embrace of absolution.
"What?" Marianna's voice croaked, barely audible as she attempted to rise from the unfamiliar bed that cradled her.
Summoning her strength despite her protesting muscles, Marianna pushed herself upright, her limbs groaning in protest as she maneuvered onto the creaking floorboards below.
As she rose with unsteady determination, a disquieting sensation slithered through her, like a shroud veiling the edges of her consciousness. There was a disturbance in the air, palpable to her very core. Yet, no matter how she strained, the elusive thread of memory danced just beyond her grasp.
