All that mattered was her mother's dying wish, but then the murders happened.
"Take care of her for me, please." her mother, Desdemona, whispered in suppressed agony. Her eyes shone with tears, and she could only wait for death.
"She's already gone, what's more to look after for?" Ilsa said with conviction dripping from her words. Why couldn't her mother understand that? Why can't she accept that her sister's dead, and the one who's with them is nothing but a walking corpse.
Desdemona bottled the hurt. The hardwork she put in bringing Eliza back took a toll on her body. She knew that tonight she was to become another statistic of the dead. She had no other choice but to die with the resentment and hopeless dream of finding a peaceful closure to her troubled life.
Desdemona held a brief life, and unfortunately, it wasn't a story of chivalry and beauty but of despair and untimely suffering.
Desdemona held her hands and tried to pull Ilsa towards her. She screamed a strangled sob. Her daughter, dear Eliza, is and will always be living in her eyes.
"She's your sister." she pleaded.
"She once was." she blinked back the tears, and proceeded to the door. Ilsa must let her mother lay in abysmal silence.
She couldn't turn the knob. The truth was, Ilsa is bound to her duty. To take care of a deranged mother who loved a dead daughter more than she has ever loved loyal Ilsa. Eliza will always be the favorite child, the beautiful and perfect one. Ever. And Ilsa felt so worthless..
Eliza who was better left dead. But if only her mother remained content and happy.
She was still facing the door, and she simply couldn't turn the knob. Deep inside her—she loved her mother—yes, she did. She remembered one degrading truth from her childhood. It always stung.
Desdemona beamed with joy as her Eliza played the piano. Eliza had a natural knack for it. When she was seven, she stumbled upon their old pianoforte. As with all children, Eliza was curious, then the talent in her began. For Desdemona, her Eliza was a genius. A blooming flower of great expectations. Her heart swelled with pride. She couldn't be more perfect. Eliza shone passionately with her music. Ilsa, on the other hand, preferred to hide her beauty in her worn sketchbooks. Every pages were filled with what could be's. And all the fading hope of an artist.
Eliza's countenance glowed. Desdemona was mesmerized by the magnetism of her daughter's grace. Ilsa noticed it all. Of course, It led to a conclusion.
Her conclusion being this,
With Eliza: Her mother is filled with the necessity of happiness.
Without Eliza: Her mother is filled with the force of the ocean. She'll be unpredictable and dangerous
A smile formed on Ilsa's scarred face. She stared at her drawing. It looked decent and needed more details. Nonetheless, she embodied the passion of Eliza in the essence of her pencil.
She tugged her mother's dress. "What is it that you want?" Desdemona hissed, frustration blooming within her bosom. Ilsa swallowed a lump on her throat, beads of sweat rolled down her forehead, and her hands ached. She placed her drawing on her mother's lap. Ilsa maintained her cool mien, and waited for her mother's reaction.
"You ruined my time by showing me this?" a scowl marred her face.
"It's Eliza."
"You could have done better." Ilsa's heart shattered.
YOU ARE READING
Massacred Flowers
Horror"Is death from life possible? Is it of essentiality? Or is it the desperation of humanity's thirst for a breakthrough of fallacies and conflicts?" -questions (un)answered excerpt from Massacred Flowers: [ "Mother- mother, why is there blood all over...
