The sulphur in the air gets thicker and thicker.
I can smell it. Smell it over the dirt and grime and the nasty smell from all the disgusting people that lingered in this rat-infested hole they call a city.
It is obvious. I can feel the tremors in the ground.
He is coming.
It will all be over soon.
xoxoxox
It didn't get better.
Maybe it had been stupid of her to even hope for it, but she did. That tiny part in her heart that longed for the days where Emmet had been a good man, a loving man.
She hadn't wanted to see, maybe she still didn't want to see, but she hoped.
But the hope turned smaller and smaller until nothing was left but dying ember in her heart.
It was strange.
The more often Emmet left, the more she longed for his return, but when he returned, he never returned with love. Not anymore. If anything, he just seemed angrier for each time.
She had tried to ask what had made him so angry, but he never answered.
Instead he took it out on her. Always on her.
Beatings, rape, he took whatever he wanted. Each time became more violent and with each episode, Rosmary prayed less and less until all she could do was beg. Beg for something to take her. Claim her spirit, her soul and release her from the pain.
It never happened though. It probably never would.
Only once did Emmet to actually show love and concern again and that was the time he accidentally twisted her arm so hard that he broke it.
She had managed to glossy it over as an accident, of course. She had tripped with a full basket of laundry while ascending the stairs. Ever so clumsy, she had laughed as the healer had set her arm, healed it and wrapped it up.
Emmet had cried that night. Cried and kneeled by her side and begged for forgiveness. That he would never, ever lay a hand on his beautiful and precious wife again, that he loved her so much that it hurt and that he had never, ever meant for this to happen.
And Rosmary had believed him.
Just like she always did.
A foolish thing to do, as she would later realise.
It was raining badly, the night where everything would change.
A storm had just come over Stratholme, dark cloud covering the night sky with only the occasional lightning striking over the sky, illuminating the wet buildings and streets.
Rosmary's arm had healed and she was currently waiting for her beloved Emmet to come back home from being out, ever playing the role of dutiful and faithful wife as she sat in a soft chair by the lit fireplace, knitting.
It was a gift for Emmet, a soft scarf he could wear now that the weather was turning worse and winter was coming.
She was actually starting to feel more bliss in her home.
Ever since the accident, Emmet had not been violent in the slightest. He had been a little tense, almost skittish, but Rosmary knew in her heart that he was probably feeling guilty of what had happened between them.
But she was ready to forgive and forget for him because she could finally see the loving man she had fallen for when they first met.
She had always known he was in there.
She should have known it earlier. She should have realised it.
She should have admitted to herself from the first day he laid a hand on her.
What had happened in the past, it had been like a nightmare, but as she looked up when she heard the door to their house slam open, the nightmare had taken a human form and was staring at her with a downright hateful look in-between the wet, long and blond strands of hair.
"Emmet?" Rosmary put away her knitting and got up from her chair.
She should have felt fear. She should have followed the voice in her head that begged for her not to approach her husband.
"Look at you, dear, you are drenched! Let me fill up the bath for you so you can heat up, there is stew ready in the kitchen. Maybe some spiced wine will-"
She never got to finish her sentence as a hand struck her hard against the face, sending her flying into the wall in the narrow hallway from the force. She had offered no resistance because she had not expected it.
She got no time to recover from it either. As quick as the storm had come over Stratholme, Emmet was over her, grabbing her hard by the arm and tugged her back up, only to slam her hard into the wall.
"Who did you speak to?!" he roared, his face twisted with anger.
"I-I don't know w-what you a-are talking about," Rosmary stuttered, her eyes wide with fear and worry.
"I-I have n-not spoken to a-anyone, I s-swear!"
"Liar," Emmet growled, releasing her from his grasp, only to slap her hard over the face again.
A cry of pain escaped her, only to be struck again with such force that it sent her crashing onto the floor.
"Don't you speak, you whore," Emmet spat, standing over his small, trembling wife, hands clenched into fists.
"I don't want to hear your filthy lies, your hateful words! How could you do this to us?! To me?! You are my wife, you are supposed to be faithful, to support and love me! And this is what I get from you?!"
"I swear," Rosmary gasped, barely daring to look up from the floor, her blue eyes brimming with unshed tears.
"I d-do not know what you are t-talking about, my love. I haven't s-spoken to anyone!"
"Liar," Emmet hissed again, grabbing her by the hair and yanking her up, earning cries of pain from his little wife as he dragged her up the stairs.
"You are a liar, a filthy whore who wants to ruin my life! But I am going to show you what happens when you disobey your husband!"
"E-Emmet, don't," Rosmary cried out before she was roughly slammed against the wall again, but the grip on her hair never loosened. Instead she was slammed again, then again, against the wall before Emmet continued to drag her into the bedroom.
She could hardly see, her vision blurry from the hard hits to her head as well as the tears welling up in her eyes, but she could feel it. Feel the anger, the hatred that poured out of her husband. It was clouding his mind, wrapping around him like a thick fog, but what scared her was just how... accepting he was to it. He did not even try to resist it.
"Silence," Emmet yelled as he tossed Rosmary onto the bed, only to immediately pounce her.
"You are my wife and you should honour me! You should obey me," he snarled, his hands tearing at her dress, ripping it at the seams with ease.
"You are mine, you whore! Mine!"
He tried to lean down, tried to kiss her, but the kiss was more teeth and bite than it was lip and it made Rosmary cry out in pain.
He continued to press her down and she could feel how hard he was against her thigh, his manhood pressing against her almost insistently.
"You are mine," he hissed again as he pinned her hands down over her head with one of his own, large hands, the other wandering down, not even hiding the fact that he was going for her private parts.
His nails scraped up over her thigh as they went under her dress, groping through her undergarments roughly.
'N-no,' she thought as she trashed underneath him, trying her best to squirm away from him, but he was so much stronger and bigger than him.
As she felt a large finger push against her through her underwear, almost going inside her even through the cloth, she let out another scream, jerking her leg up as she tried to get away.
She hadn't meant to let her knee slam into his groin; it hadn't even crossed her mind to try to harm him in such a way. It hadn't even occurred to her that she could get away like that so when he cried out in pain, the hand under her dress going for his own private parts, she froze.
She could almost see how the darkness became bigger around her husband, how it intensified.
"You," Emmet growled, the grip around her wrist never loosening even after he had been kicked. Now it tightened further until she was sure her bones would break. "Bitch!"
"P-please," Rosmary whispered, her voice pleading, hoping to reach Emmet behind that darkness. "I-I d-didn't mean to..."
"Shut up," Emmet yelled, slapping her across the face hard before he gripped at her neck, squeezing down.
"You always speak! Why do you always speak?!
"E-Emmet," Rosmary gasped, feeling the strong fingers press down over her windpipe, preventing her from breathing.
'Light, this isn't happening,' she thought desperately, tugging desperately at her hands, squirming again in a desperate attempt to free herself.
But it was happening.
Light, but it was happening.
Emmet's large hands were on her, around her neck, slowly choking her, cutting off her air, leaving her gasping and aching on the floor.
And the light was not coming for her.
No. The only thing that swam across her vision was darkness. The only thing listening, coming to claim her was darkness.
There was no room for light. Not here.
The light could not reach the level of hell where she found herself.
But darkness could.
Darkness had already claimed her husband a long time ago and now it was coming for her.
For the first time in her life, she welcomed it.
xoxoxox
She became so still. So very, very still in his hands.
She stopped gasping, stopped squirming. The clawing hands at his hands, his face his shoulders stilled, then fell to the ground.
Emmet breathed out hard, not having realised that he had held his breath.
The red haze that had laid itself over his eyes slowly lifted and then he saw it.
Rosmary was laying still; her already pale, beautiful face now had a blue hue to it. The tell-tale sight of bruises was forming on her neck. Bruises that had the shape of his hands.
Her breast was still, unmoving.
There was not the slightest little sound coming from her.
She almost looked peaceful. Eyes closes, one hand having fallen over her midsection, the other over her head. Blue-tinted lips slightly parted.
She almost looked as she was asleep.
"... Rosmary," he whispered, his voice still rough.
"... Come on, honey, don't be like this... I... I am sorry, I... I just got a little mad," he added, a small chuckle escaping him as his hand gently cupped her cheek, the other lifting her head slightly up from the floor.
"Darling..? Please, speak to me... I... I didn't mean to..."
But he had and he knew it. He had meant to and now the consequences were lying in his arms. The fruit of his anger evident in the bruises and the so-very still body of his darling wife.
He had killed her.
By the light he had just murdered his own wife.
"Darling... Rosmary. Please. Please wake up," Emmet cried out, grasping her shoulders and shaking her hard.
Her head jerked around like a rag doll as he shook her and for a moment he was afraid that he had snapped her neck. It was just hanging from her shoulders, limp.
In desperation, he called for the light, willing it to his hands as he tried to use the little healing magic he knew, but to no avail.
The light wasn't listening to him anymore. He didn't deserve it.
"Shit," he whispered, licking his lips nervously as his eyes darted from side to side.
What was he going to do now?
If the people of Stratholme found out that he had killed the minister's daughter... He would be hanged.
He couldn't let them know. He could never let them know.
He would just have to get rid of the body.
And he knew exactly how to do it.
xoxoxoxo
Yes, yes, it is getting hard to breathe.
The air is thick, getting thicker and with each breath it will get harder. The smoke, the gas, the sulphur; it will fill their lungs and it will choke them.
It will choke all of them.
Oh, how I long for that to happen. For the darkness to claim me once again.
To take me away from all this stinking rot, the dirt, the smells, the sight.
Take me away from all the filth. Let the darkness claim me, claim them all.
The darkness will cleanse us.
The fire will cleanse us.
Everything will be better.
Everything.