Chapter three: A Haunting Premonition

I sat up lazily, but suddenly lay back down. My chest hurt immensely, my lungs burned like fire. The effort of sitting up had drained my strength and made my head spin and throb intensely.

What had happened? And where on earth was I? Certainly not in the security or warmth my bed provided. Wincing against the pain, I sat up and propped myself against a hard wall behind me as I took in my surroundings.

It appeared to be an alley of some sort; and ominous, unfriendly alley. I looked down at my dress. The once colorful fabric was faded and worn, and grungy and torn. I passed a hand tentatively through my hair, only to find it matted and impossibly tangled. Passing a hand over my body, I felt the caked on dirt and the itch of the many lice that infested and swarmed over my skin. I shuddered, revulsion rapidly spreading like a wild fire in a dry forest. I tried once again to stand up, only to have my knees give way beneath me; leaving me falling hard into the stagnant water on the cold cobblestone, banging my head on the wall behind me. A metallic taste filled my mouth as I realized I had bit my tongue.

I inhaled a deep raspy breath. I need help immediately. Several of my ribs were broken and God knew what sort of pestilence ran through my body mercilessly after being in this dank, cold, alley for so long.

A putrid smell wafted through the air, burning my nostrils as I inhaled it. It was horrid, like a mixture of alcohol, smoke, and sewer stench. I swallowed hard against the bile that rose and choked me menacingly in my throat. I gulped for air, but the terrible miasma filled my lungs instead.

I fell forward onto all fours and vomited the contents of my weak stomach; then went into dry heaves, realizing I was probably starving and had not eaten in days. The few still intact ribs I could feel through my dress confirmed this haunting revelation. Whether it was sickness, cold, or starvation, death would come soon enough. All I had to do was wait, and I would be unleashed from my suffering.

I needed help. But from whom? All of the windows that loomed overhead were dark and lifeless. A woman of the streets stood farther down, calling out to a man. Selling her body for a living, to put food in her mouth. Or perhaps she had children to feed. Scanning the area, I saw an extremely drunk man walk by, but I dismissed the thought of his help immediately. That man would not help me. He would most likely harm me further, possibly even rape me. A man with a peg leg limped by, his uneven walking and wooden leg clicking along on the slick cobblestones and echoing off of the alley walls. Then a man pushing a cart walked by, perhaps he would help me?

I crawled through the grimy gutters towards where he was walking.

"Monsieur," I said in a barely audible whisper.

"Get away from me, scoundrel! I'll have none of your begging! Git!"

He smacked me with the back of his hand, forcing me to fall in a disheveled heap in the gutter. I watched him as he hurried away anxiously down the street.

There was nothing to do now. Without help, I would surely die. I lay back, arching my neck and back towards the sky, praying for God to take me quickly as I fingered the tiny crucifix around my neck. All there was to do now was wait for my death to descend upon me.

I sat up in a cold sweat, my breathing heavy and my pulse racing. Frantically looking around me, I realized that I was safe in my room. I mopped my brow a bit, pushing back the curls, which clung to the moisture. Sitting up to look out the window, I looked down at my nightshift, which was soaked from my perspiration. The sun had still not come out, and it was as gray and gloomy as yesterday, although a bit darker since it was earlier in the morning.

I dared not go back to sleep and enter the nightmare world I had entered, so I pulled on a robe and made my way into the lofty hall. Shivering a bit, I tiptoed cautiously towards the stairs, as if I might wake a sleeping child if I stepped on the wrong board.

After the descent, I went into the cold living room, where the hearth had burned warmly the previous night. I looked up at the old grandfather clock. Half past five. It might be awhile before Mary Elizabeth got here. I sat down on the sofa by the window and thought about my awful nightmare.

Was it a sign? Was something like that actually going to happen to me? I prayed to God silently that it would not. Would I be reduced to selling my body, becoming a prostitute, to keep myself alive? Or would I die first in that dingy hellhole I had seen in my dream wasteland?

"Please, Papa," I prayed out loud in a whisper, "please, send me an angel now. Send me my angel of music."

I snapped my head up as the sound of a key turning in a lock grabbed my attention. The door opened, letting in a slight draft, and I looked up to see Sister Mary Elizabeth in the doorway. She rubbed her hands together, replaced the key in her large maroon handbag, hung up her coat on a nearby rack, and turned in my direction.

"Oh, hello Christine," she said, the surprise apparent in her voice and face, "I didn't expect you to be up this early," she said, pulling her gloves off and putting them in her bag before turning to face me once more. "Couldn't you sleep?"

I stared at her for a moment, my mouth agape. Should I tell her the truth? Contemplating this, I finally worked out a meek, "No," immediately casting my eyes to the floor and examining the boards after supplying her with an answer. She seemed satisfied enough.

"Hmm," she said as she walked through the room and towards the kitchen. I now saw that besides her handbag, she was carrying a box and a canvas bag. I eagerly followed her, wondering what the contents of the bag and the box were.

When she reached the kitchen, she walked over and placed all of her things on the table, pushing her handbag to the opposite side. She picked up the box and examined it, before placing it on the table before me. I looked up at her, then down at the box. It was a plain brown box, and it felt coarse and homemade. There was a single piece of twine tied around it, probably to hold it together.

"Go ahead, it's your dress. I picked it up from the seamstress this morning on my way over," she said, bustling around the kitchen now.

I slowly undid the twine and pulled the lid of the box off. Pulling back the tissue paper that covered it, I glimpsed at my new dress. It was black, for my father's funeral. I carefully lifted the material out of the box and held it before me.

"Oh Christine," came Mary Elizabeth's voice behind me, "it's beautiful, but if you wouldn't mind, I would feel better if you took it out of the kitchen, so you won't spill any food on it," she said, unloading the contents of her canvas bag, which were a bottle of milk and a pastry bag. "I'll fix your breakfast, and call you when it's ready," she smiled at me as I left the room, clutching the box to my chest.

I walked up to my room and set the box on my bed, pulling the lid off once more. As I took the dress out and held it to my body, a small piece of paper fluttered gracefully to the floor. I picked it up and observed it. It was only a mere scrap, with a note scribbled on it.

"Christine, remember, have strength. Bon courage, good luck," the note said. I looked down to the bottom to see whom it was from. It had Adrienne's signature at the bottom. I folded it up discretely and tucked it away inside of my vanity drawer.

Once again I returned to the dress where I had laid it on my bed. I looked into the box to make sure it was empty, and pulled out the gauzy black veil. I then went in search of black shoes, and after I had found some, I heard Mary Elizabeth calling me for breakfast.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I found Mary Elizabeth waiting for me. She smiled at me, and examined me, frowning at my sodden nightshift and hesitantly reaching out to touch it as I stepped off of the bottom step.

"My dear, your nightshift is positively soaked! Did something happen to you?" she exclaimed.

I felt her gaze upon me as I studied the floorboards.

"Christine?" She continued.

I looked up at her and felt my eyes go as wide as saucers. I don't believe she really intended to make me feel nervous, but somehow I felt like my tongue was made of lead, and my feet were nailed to the floor, preventing me from fleeing.

"I, um," I stuttered, "I guess I got a little too hot last night." I finally managed, perhaps a little too quickly.

She nodded, clicking her tongue against her teeth as she stood upright and wiped her hand on her dress before turning to me again.

"Your breakfast is ready," she said, regaining her cheery demeanor as she walked into the kitchen.

I followed, taking a seat at the table where the place was set. Before me sat a croissant on an ornate little dish and a tall frothy glass of milk. It looked wonderful. I picked up the pastry, still warm, and held it between my hands before tearing it in half and taking a generous bite of the smaller portion. Downing a swig of the milk, I felt the cool refreshing liquid run down my throat, and realized from the sweet taste that it must be goat's milk. Mary Elizabeth turned around from tidying to observe me and quickly her face fell for a second.

"I'm sorry dear," she said, placing a jar of orange marmalade and a butter knife on the table with a clink, "I almost forgot some jam for your croissant,"

"Oh," I said, a bit surprised, "thank you."

After a bit of a struggle, I managed to get the jar open and dipped the butter knife in and spread a thick coat of marmalade on the fluffy pastry. When I had finished the last bites of the croissant and the last few gulps of milk, Mary Elizabeth cleared my plate and glass and told me to get ready for the funeral.

Dread suddenly gripped me, and I nodded absently before leaving the kitchen and trudging up the stairs to my room. As I pulled on an undergarment, I felt the hot tears run down my cheeks again. I pulled open my vanity drawer and pulled out an intricately embroidered handkerchief to wipe my eyes on. After I pulled my dress over my head and laced up my shoes, I pulled my hair back neatly and tied it with a black hair ribbon, which I had to rummage through my vanity to find. Draping the gauzy black veil over my head and looking myself in the mirror one last time before we left, I then turned to the small door and stepped outside into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar behind me.

I walked down the old stairs and through the front sitting room to where the door was. Leaning all my weight against it, I waited until I heard the Sister's footsteps approaching. She simpered slightly before taking me into her arms for a moment. I breathed in her welcoming scent of rosemary before she released me and took my chin in her hand.

"Chin up, dear," she said, holding my face so I could look her in the eyes, "we'll get through this, don't you worry."

She sighed deeply before picking up her large handbag from where she had placed it on the floor and turning to face the door. I reluctantly turned around as she opened the door, and we stepped out into the frigid morning air and the few rays of the sun that had managed to permeate the clouds. After fidgeting with the lock, Mary Elizabeth secured the house and took my hand as we trudged down the sodden path towards the black coach that would take us to the cemetery. As I felt the horses' hooves move rhythmically with the swaying of the coach, I thought of what loomed ahead: my father's funeral.

A/N: The only reason I'm still writing this story is because my one reviewer, Nade-Naberrie, won't let me stop. It's rubbish, I know, and no one is reading or reviewing it. But oh well. There are worse things in life, I suppose.