I stared blankly at the wall across from me, the blanket pulled past my chin as I leaned against the wall. The memory of the night before still echoed in my mind. The cut in my shoulder throbbed. I am truly thankful that the wound has not infected. The Hessian must treat his sword with care.
The Horseman. The thought of him now sends cold chills up my spine. I remember the unbearable pain and pressure as the blade pierced my shoulder and the Hessian flung me through the air. At the apex of my arch, I could see the jagged cut of his neck. The tube that was his jugular, his black, compressed windpipe, and the broken bone that was a vertebrae. If he were alive, I would assume he would be paralyzed. He is obviously not alive.
I heard footsteps on the floor beneath mine, the sounds bouncing fiercely within my ears, enhancing the headache that had readily been growing since I awoke. I massaged my temples nervously with one hand, the other holding the blanket securely in place. The house unnerved me with it's endless creaking and settling, making it seem as though an unseen evil was walking around, mocking me with it's presence. I paused, and unconsciously rubbed my shoulder as well. The Hessian may leave me with many scars, but hopefully I would not lose my head over it.
My hand brushed over my pocket. I drew out the Thaumatrope,
thankfully allowing it to occupy my thoughts. I twisted the strings mindlessly,
watching the bird and the cage spin, until it spun too fast for my eye to
comprehend and the images merged.
The spinning slowed, and finally stopped with the image of the bird facing me.
I regarded it curiously – a simple optical illusion, yet it held so much
meaning. You spin the strings, and it gives the impression that the bird is
whole, within the cage, in its rightful place. Yet in reality, the bird is
never within the cage; it is always separate, no matter how fast you may spin
it. The image of the cardinal comforted me, letting me know that someone else
out there was separate, lacking, giving the appearance of normality but in all
reality yearns for something that they could not reach.
Suddenly disgusted with myself, I placed the Thaumatrope into my pocket. Its solid presence gave me little comfort, and I rubbed my hands together. Not so much from the cold, but from the unnerving reminder of all the blood spilt on them. I speak metaphorically, of course. There is no blood on my hands, not at this moment. The pricks that dot my hand pronounce my discomfort. When I was young, I would trace them, drawing pictures and designs, fascinated by the angles I could create. Only recently have I stopped, after remembering how I had received them.
A knock sounded on the door, and I jumped. I quickly settled myself into the bed, feigning sleep. The door opened, the hinges creaking, and then closed. After a minute I peeked one eye open. No one had entered. Katherine must have checked on me. I sighed, and lay down on the pillow, desperately trying not to think of the Headless Horseman.