The Power of Fate
By Artichokie
"Hush, little baby, don't say a word…" a woman's voice softly flows out into the night. I grin to my reflection in the window as I watch the scene unfold in the moonless night. Yes, precious youth, I think with a sneer; keep your lips sealed as Mama sings you a precious lullaby.
My body shivers with anticipation as I think about what the night will bring. My right hand grips the blunt end of my wand, my fingers softly stroking its smooth edges. My left hand tightens its hold on the metal handle of the small knife hidden within the sleeve of my cloak. I could feel traces of dried blood still residing on the cold metal from the last time I used it. Too much time had passed between then and now, and I am aching to strike again.
I could already hear the screams filling my head, the sweet noise as comforting as the ice-cold wind pushing into my skin. The wind does not bother me; I can feel the invisible knives playing havoc with the exposed skin on my face. I close my eyes as I relish in the pain. Pain is preferable over numbness; numbness symbolizes death, and I am not dead. I will not be dead until I deem it my time to pass. I do not play with fate; I am fate. I have the power.
The woman leans over and rests her elbow on the mattress, her voice still tinkling through the dirty glass of the windowpane. She tucks a thin cloth beneath the child's shoulders, one that could hardly prevent the cold of the night from shrouding his delicate body. No matter, he will not need it through the night. Another shiver races down my spine, a grin flirting with my lips.
The woman's golden hair spills from behind her ear, obscuring her face from my view. The strands glow from the candle illuminating the room from the table on the other side of her. The child reaches up and grabs the woman's hair, yanking with all the strength he can muster. The woman's singing pauses as she gently grabs his hand and forces his fingers to relinquish their hold. She curls the tendrils behind her ear once more, a smile illuminating her face. She is a pretty woman, her young face perfect in structure, and her vibrant cobalt blue eyes standing out against her pale skin. If I were any other man, I would be hopelessly attracted to her. But I am not. She means only one thing to me.
Yes, I will have fun with this one.
The woman resumes singing her song, her hand gently caressing the boy's head. His eyelids are heavy; I can see them from here. He's a stubborn lad, but no matter; they tend to be the most fun to torment once they become aware of what is happening.
The last note of the lullaby escapes the woman's throat, and my heart begins to race. Sweat begins to form along my brown and along the palms of my hands. I roll the handle of the knife between my fingers as my teeth clinch together.
The woman stands up and adjusts the skirt of her dress. She turns around and leans back over the child, placing a light kiss on his forehead. Her lips move with her soft words—words that failed to break through the glass—and she smiles at the child. The child's small hand comes up as he slowly waves to his mother. Aw, how precious, I snidely remark. The woman affectionately squeezes his hand and places it back against the mattress. She leans over and blows out the candle, obscuring the room in darkness.
I turn away from the window and quietly start towards the back door of the small cottage. A quiet cackle escaped my cracked lips, a cloud of mist forming in front of my face. Go to sleep, little one.