Marys' Quest

Chapter One; Of Silent Promises

1978, England;

Graveyard;

Grave; Mary Elizabeth Fryre

Aguast 28

- - -

She awoke in a strange room, it was dark and smelled of rotting flesh and dry blood. She made a move to sit up but hit something soft, when she moved her hand to investigate she found it was plush fabric. She gasped and tried moving herself around the whole area, she soon realized she was in a box, a box filled with plush surrounding that reaked. It was a strange bed. She couldn't remember anything, she did not recall lying down here.

...She felt hot breath and the swish of cold metal on her exposed neck.

She looked up into the mirror, but it was too late, she could not see who had murdered her.

Only the smooth, long cut just above her collorbone, and the blood dripping down her neck...

Realization suddenly dawned on her, she was not in a room, or a bed. But, to her horror, a coffin. And, that smell was not from the fabric, or the coffin, but from herself.

She shreaked and began thrashing about, kicking and punching her resting place, screaming all the while. She did this until she ran out of breathe, which was decidedly odd considering she was supposed to be dead, then would start again, and again, and again. A wheel spinning, it's cycle never ceasing.

She flinched.

Something had just fallen on her face, just beside her nose, then, just like a flick of the wrist, it was gone. Her own hair perhaps? No, she thought, hair is not of powdered substance. She thought on this for a while until it seemed pointless, it was in most likelyhood her imagination. Yes. Her imagination. Of course. Though the thought seemed foreign even to herself.

She started again, but again something fell, from the what-would-be-ceiling. She pounded again, more came. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More. Again. More...

Her whole face was covered, soon she was caughing because of all the dust. Dirt. Dirt, that's it! It was dirt, her mind began working in a massive thunderstorm.

Coffin... Dirt... Ground... Coffing... Burial... BURIAL! shreak. Underground...UNDERGROUND!!!

She formulated a plan...

- - -

A lone figure walked amongst the tombstones, her face brown from all the dirt, her wool skirt torn with a slit on her right side, showing a fraction of her leg, her petticoat was damaged, along with her black bodice that had seams ripping from the front. Her braid was the only thing that went unscathed, it had been in an odd hat that was worn in times of death. Mourning. She had worn it twice before. Her cousins death, and her sisters, now it was for her death.

It's a very peculiar thing, to think of yourself as dead. Most definately. Death would usually bring you beyond, or so your told. Not back to where you originated. If by chance, if you did, wouldn't you have been reborn? And not come back as yourself ? And for some it would probably be hard, to lose everything, to see everything you loved ripped away from you. And to consider yourself dead, you'd no longer be breathing. In that case, you're not living, but if you aren't living then why would you be brought back to a place where only the living existed? Like I said, it's a very peculiar feeling, to think of yourself as dead. For Mary, it was no exception.

She had tearstains masking her freckles, smearing the dirt to liquid mud. Her violet eyes were an ocean of tears. Everything was lost, it was all fucked up. Life wasn't supposed to come to this, wherever this is. There was still a billion breaths more to take, a million more pointless choices and dumb mistakes to make. Everything she had was lost, and everything that was had was to never be had again.

Her eyes travelled towards her grave, she crept near, her hands tracing the words that had long ago faded.

In Loving Memory

Mary Elizabeth Fryre

1649-1666

Beloved Daughter,

Loving Sister,

Trusted Friend,

We'll Miss You Dearly

Murdered

Her eyes swelled up with more tears. Her gaze wavered to the grave next hers;

In Loving Memory

William Henry Ashaby

1648-1668

Beloved Son,

Trusted Friend,

Rest In Peace

She gasped.

At the very bottom, almost not visible from all the years, was an inscription that sent her in a pit of despair;

If Not In Life,

Then We Shall Be Together In Death,

In Honor To;

Mary Elizabeth Fryre

She looked at the graves near hers' and was filled with hate. All her friends' and family were here, but not from living a long life, dying from old age, but all wore the inscription date near same time as hers'. And, all had the same word edged at the bottom, Murdered .

She collapsed of greif...

The last thought in her mind was of Revenge.

She made a silent promise to herself.

She would avenge these deaths. Every Last One.

Not Just For Her.

For All Of Them.

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