v. thirty-two: ❝ dreamin' about life to miss the point ❞
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𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠: vampire empire - big thief
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Is suffering beautiful? Does surviving in agony make one lovable? Marianna steps slowly and deliberately as she crosses the threshold into the room that belonged to her. The huge room felt frozen, a place suspended between life and death, much like herself. Her clothes still hung neatly in a wardrobe—silks and cottons that once brushed her skin. Trinkets from a life that no longer existed glistened faintly in the dim light. There was the ivory comb she had loved when she was younger, its teeth worn from years of use.
She paused, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes roamed the space—her grave, an altar of her memories, untouched by time, preserved in a strange, reverent limbo. Her paintings, the ones Tommy had purchased in secret after her supposed death, adorned the walls, each stroke of colour an echo of the woman she once was. Her letters—tattered edges yellowed with age—lay in a neat pile on the desk. Letters to Tommy, filled with longing and fury, never sent. Her sketches, intricate and filled with life, were scattered across the room as if she had only just left them there.
And there, taped to the mirror, was a family photograph—her, her parents, and Mal, the one that had been torn and ransacked by Billy Kimber's men. Tommy had mended it, carefully taping the pieces back together like he was mending her in his mind, restoring what had been lost. But she had been lost far too long for simple mending.
Such an existence. This room, this carefully crafted shrine, was owned by a man married to another. A father to a son who was not hers. And yet, here it was—her ghost embedded in the very walls of his house.
She moved to the window, her fingers brushing lightly over the curtains. She imagined Tommy here, sitting in the dark, his mind conjuring the image of her in this room. Imagining her alive, as if her presence here was his salvation, as if this room could bring her back to him. The delusion of it all, the sheer foolishness. She could see him now, in her mind's eye, pacing this room, seeking solace in her absence, in the false hope that her spirit lingers. Such delusion is a crime. A crime of the heart.
The very existence of this room, a space where she lived and breathed only in his mind, felt like a violation. A married man clinging to her memory while his wife and son lived under the same roof. It was an unspoken betrayal, a transgression of love and loyalty, yet she could not help but be drawn into the pull of it.
