Page 16 of Porcelain Grave

And then, she stops.

She doesn't move. The blood continues to pool around her, a widening lake of red that swallows the sheets.

Thomas, still holding me, starts to shout. "Marguerite! Wake up! Marguerite!"

He drops me and the others on the sheets and lunges for her. He checks her heart, feels for a pulse, and begins frantic, clumsy CPR. He's sobbing now, begging her to wake up, screaming that they were supposed to be a family. He hugs her cold body, wailing into her neck, pleading with a corpse to love him.

She dies without ever giving him what he wanted. He had her body, he had her children, but he never, ever had her heart. He lost.

He cuts the umbilical cords, wraps us in rags, and places us next to her. Then, he just sits there in the pool of blood, legs stretched out, crying like a pathetic, broken child for twenty minutes.

Finally, he stands up and walks to the camera. He picks it up, his face a mask of bitterness and grief.

"Marguerite is gone," he tells the lens. "I'll have to put her in the attic. Buy a big box. I can't move her to a cemetery without being caught."

He stares into the camera, his expression twisting into something truly demonic. He screams at the top of his lungs, a raw, hateful sound that echoes through the speakers:

"YOU BITCH! YOU COLD, HEARTLESS BITCH! I GAVE YOU EVERYTHING! I GAVE YOU A HOME! I GAVE YOU CHILDREN! WHY COULDN'T YOU JUST FUCKING LOVE ME?!"

The screen goes black. Static fills the silence.

I am shaking so hard I can barely breathe, my face buried in Rhys's chest. I can feel his heart beating—steady, possessive, dark. I don't know if I want to scream or vomit, but as I clutch the black rose in my hand, I realize that the monster who created me died the moment he realized he would never be loved.

The silence in the room is deafening, heavier than the static on the screen. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel my hands. Everything is blurred, the edges of the room bleeding into a grey, suffocating fog. I feel like I’m floating, drifting away from my own skin.

"Ophelia?"

Rhys’s voice reaches me, but it sounds wrong. It’s distant, like he’s shouting from the bottom of a well, or maybe from another fucking room entirely. I can see his lips moving, see the concern etched into his sharp features, but the sound is a million miles away.

Then, the first sob breaks through. It’s a jagged, ugly sound that rips out of my throat, shattering the numbness. I can’t breathe. The image of my mother—broken, bleeding, dying in a pool of her own gore—is burned into the back of my eyelids.

Suddenly, a surge of blind, primal panic hits me. I need to get out. I need to run until my lungs burst. I scramble up, my movements clumsy and frantic, and bolt for the door. I don't even know where I'm going, I just know I can't be here anymore.

I don't make it.

Rhys is faster. He catches me right at the threshold, his arms slamming around me like iron bands, pinning me against the doorframe. I collapse against him, my whole body shaking with violent, racking sobs.

"I want my mum!" I scream, the words raw and desperate. I clutch at his clothes, my fingers digging into the fabric. "Take me to her! Please, Rhys, please take me to my mommy!"

I’m not a woman in this moment. I’m that tiny, screaming infant on the blood-soaked sheets. I’m a broken child begging for a ghost.

"I've got you," he murmurs, his voice thick, grounding me. "I'll take you to her, sweetheart. I promise."

But the promise is a lie. She’s in a box. She’s dust and rot and memory. The realization hits me like a physical blow, and the grief turns into something colder, something final.

"Just let me die," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Let me go to her. I can't do this anymore. I can't fucking live with this. I don't want to be alive, Rhys. I just want to die."

Before he can react, my hand darts out. I don't think; I just act. I snatch the gun from his belt, the cold steel feeling like the only honest thing in the room. I jam the barrel under my chin, my finger tightening on the trigger.

"Ophelia, no!"

He lunges. He rips the weapon from my grip with a violent jerk just as the hammer falls.

BANG.

The shot echoes through the room, a deafening crack that makes my ears ring. The bullet flies harmlessly into the air, but the intent was there. Rhys doesn't hesitate; he rips the gun completely out of my hand and hurls it across the room. It skids across the floor, landing far out of reach.

He slams me back against the wall, his grip bruising, his eyes flashing a dangerous, predatory red. He grabs my face in both hands, forcing me to look directly into his gaze. His expression is a terrifying mix of fury and absolute desperation.