It could have been the 100th time, the 200th time, or the thousandth time that she had found herself on the inside of that derelict prison.
They had thrown her inside a small prison cell many days ago, though even the days themselves she no longer bothered to keep track of. Even inside the cell, they had left her hands shackled. Blood stained her wrists where the metal had rubbed against the skin. Morana Sorrell Carnelian did not seem to know she was injured, or that guards passed by every day or so to drop her food. Her eyes, a dull grey, had found a spot on the opposite wall and fixated themselves there, appearing to stare beyond it.
The first time was murder. Phoebe Amaranth, a beautiful young thing with black hair and violet eyes, who stole everyone's affection, had been unfortunate enough to become the object of Morana's jealousy. Not knowing any better solution, or perhaps because of what she had been taught as a child, she had used poison to remove the issue.
The second time was similar, though she had sought to be more careful. After a couple more times, she thought to stop, but could not.
Each time ended with Morana Carnelian's death, executed, and each time she found herself waking up, a few days prior to the heinous act she had committed, in her own bed.
She recalled one repeat where she woke up immediately to charge over to the Amaranth Earldom with a knife, killing Phoebe at the door of her own home. Perhaps it was a couple of times. She could no longer recall. At that point the word "murder" no longer seemed adequate to describe the absolute insanity and rage behind the crime she kept committing.
But each reincarnation Phoebe lived, a beauty that Morana could not scar or taint. It drove her mad, until she knew nothing else. It had been this time, this repeat that she knew not the number of, where she had woken and went berserk, murdering all those unlucky enough to be close to her at the time. Her mother, numerous servants. For the absolute first time, Morana was in this cell while Phoebe was still breathing.
It would be execution, again. With this thought some colour returned to Morana's crazed, empty eyes. She decided that this repeat would have yet another "first". Blood dripped from her wrists to her palms, and she clasped them together, tightly. She hummed, and a sharp hissing sound emanated from her hands. Unclasping them, she revealed a blade she had created from her blood, an ability she had had all her life. It was useful now.
She brought the blade to her throat, and she cut. What she would do in the next repeat, she could not say.
The limp body of Morana Carnelian fell to the ground of the stone cell, blood bursting forth into the stone, hissing as if burning the floor. She heard little but the distant shout of the guards, and a gentle, warm light that had suddenly appeared above her.
"Morana Carnelian" The woman murmured, her face a blur as the life left Morana's body. "Have you finally understood?"
Her question seemed mocking as the darkness engulfed her.
~ * ~
It was soft.
Morana knew she was in her own bed. There was always a moment of darkness, after death. Her consciousness always seemed to return first, but always it took a while before she could move. She vaguely sensed she had been in the darkness for longer, this time.
Her eyes opened. She was back again, and that was all she could think of. Sorrow and fear flooded her body uncontrollably as she bolted upright. She looked to her bedside table, where there sat a glass, she quickly smashed it, grabbing a glass shard and bringing it to her throat.
She paused.
Her hands…. Seemed smaller.
Her breath slowed slightly. She looked down, considering her hands. They were smaller. She looked at her legs thin and short and barely reaching the ground as her feet dangled over the bed.
"Lady Morana!" A loud knock at the door startled her. "Are you alright? I heard a noise?"
Morana looked down at the broken glass littering the ground. "I'm fine." She replied. "Leave me be." She waited until the sound of the maid's footsteps receded into the distance, pushing herself off the bed, and walking over to the mirror on her dresser.
The little girl looked distraught and pale. Blood dripped from a hand that held a glass shard, falling onto the carpet. Her tangled chestnut hair, short at this age, curled around a face that was speckled with freckles. Large grey eyes, and a thin body. This was Morana Carnelian as she was at age 10.