The flames of the candle flickered while illuminating the table it was placed on and although bright, it could not wash away the crimson that smeared itself on the surroundings. It was dark and haunting. How ironic!
The light of God was darker than the one man made.
Atis brought her hand around the candle so as to prevent it from going out. While reaching for a worn diary buried amongst a clutter of books at the table's edge. Opening its tattered cover, she scanned the page.
"15/3
Why, Markiv? Why did you go there? What were you thinking?"
That was all. Just a desperate scribble—a raw, frustrated outpouring of emotions that had long been trapped in her heart.
She picked up the fountain pen resting in its holder, dipped the nib into the inkpot, and began to write.
"16/3
The police checked the records of people returning from Nikarsh in Northern Uruk. Your name wasn't there. I don't know what to do anymore. Should I let it go? Or should I keep waiting for you? Where are you, Markiv?
The rent renewal is due next month, and my savings are almost gone. I might have to see the doctor again next week to check if the anemia has returned. Another transfusion might be needed..."
She continued jotting down the thoughts that weighed on her mind, emptying her burdens onto the paper. When she finished, she placed the pen back into its holder and reread her words to ensure nothing important was left unsaid.
Suddenly, her hands trembled as her gaze lingered on the page. Pressing her palms against her temples, she let out a shallow, shaky breath.
Drip. Drip.
Two droplets of tears fell onto the diary's pages, their wet streaks blurring the ink. Her breathing sounded rough, almost grating, and though her sobs were heart-wrenching, she wiped her tears away with a mechanical calm, as if she'd grown accustomed to this pain.
Her reddened eyes grew heavier by the second, and exhaustion pulled her toward sleep's embrace. Her eyelids fluttered shut when—
Knock. Knock.
The sound jolted her awake. Her eyes snapped open, and her head turned sharply toward the door.
Who could it be?
Her gaze darted to the clock on the table. It was past midnight. She frowned as she rose and walked cautiously toward the door.
"Who is it?" she called out.
Silence.
Her chest tightened, and unease crept into her mind.
"Who's there?" she demanded again, louder this time.
Still, no reply.
Just as she hesitated, an absurd thought surfaced—a whisper of hope that made no sense but felt too tempting to ignore.
Is it my brother? Could he be trying to surprise me by not answering?
Her fear dissolved instantly, replaced by an electrifying joy that coursed through her veins.
As irrational as the thought was, her movements became equally impulsive. She rushed to the door, a smile spreading across her face. The dim candlelight highlighted the star tattoo etched on her forearm as she reached for the knob.
She twisted it, unlocked the door and flunged it towards herself.
Her heart pounding with anticipation, her mind consumed by the ecstatic possibility of reunion.
She peered outside…
…Only to be never seen again.
…
The entire world was covered in black veil as eclipse hung from the skies but the gradiation of the shades made the sky look ever more fascinating. There was a golden glow around the solar eclipse and the moon turned ever so slightly crimson.
As the distance from the eclipse grew, the gold seamlessly blended into a mystical shade of violet, fading eventually into black as the horizon reached its limits.
The clock tower stood proudly in the background and the tar-coloured streets were gleaming in the shades of the low-lying moon. Cemented houses lined the streets, dull and lifeless, as if they existed solely to diminish the grandeur of this magnificent town. Amidst the silence, the faint sound of rolling wheels echoed through the empty streets.
A man in a black cloak trudged forward, pulling a small garbage cart behind him. As he moved, the wheels struck a stray stone on the road, causing the cart to tip precariously. Though he managed to steady it before it toppled, a black polythene bag tumbled to the ground.
The bag tore open as it hit the pavement, and a crimson liquid seeped out. From the tear, something horrifying came into sight —a bloodied hand, severed at the forearm. The most intriguing thing was that the hand bore a tattoo of a star etched onto its skin, a detail that made the scene even more unsettling.
The man froze for a moment, startled. Then, with panicked urgency, he rushed to the bag and hastily stuffed the severed hand back inside, tightening the torn plastic around it. His eyes darted around, scanning the shadows to see if anyone had witnessed the gruesome sight.
Once assured he was alone, he stood, his movements hurried and tense. But the blood remained—a thick, glistening puddle spreading on the ground, catching the faint light of the crimson-tinged moon above.
The man hesitated for a fleeting moment, his gaze flickering to the blood as though drawn to it. It shimmered unnaturally, as though alive, reflecting a moon bloodier than the one hanging in the heavens.
And then, without looking back, he disappeared into the night's thick, suffocating darkness.