Chapter 7
When Miriam woke once more she was back in the cold dark cell. She was somewhat relieved that the waste had been removed. A fresh bucket of water and a plate of stale bread were placed near the wall directly across from her. She crawled forward and picked up the loaf. Her body was too week to stand and any nourishment was welcome. After her dry lunch, Miriam drank some of the water. It had the faint taste of spoiled fish about it, which made her newly satisfied stomach turn. She had to force her herself to drink the disgusting liquid. After her unpleasant meal, she allowed herself to relax against the cold stone. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the waves beating against the exterior of her cell. It was oddly enough somewhat relaxing. The constant noise of the waves filtered out the beating fear that pounded in her heart. She wanted to go to sleep and then wake to find herself in her warm bed; however, deep down she know that would not happen.
She wrung her hands in her lap and looked down at their skeletal appearance. Even in the darkness of the cell she could see that the nails were long and jagged. The skin around her knuckles and the palms of her hands were scabbed over from her worthless attempts to beat upon the stone cell wall. She wrung her hands harder as if trying to find the hands she remembered under the scarred flesh; in the process bits of her dry dead flesh flaked off and disappeared into the darkness. The pain was somewhat dull as she rubbed her fingers over the scabs; however, she reveled in the warmth of the pain for it made her feel more alive, more real. While she was unsure of the reality of the world around her and the body she possessed, she was sure of the pain; it was without a doubt her own.
She stilled her hands and thought of the morning's trial. They had said she had committed murder. They had said she had tortured innocent victims. They claimed she was a follower of a madman. A tear fell down her cheek. Had she been so horrible? Had she gone so mad that she believed she was her last victim, Miriam Anderson? She began to wonder if she was really this Bellatrix. How else could it possibly be explained that her appearance was so dark, so shallow, so obviously of that of a madwoman. She wiped a few of the tears off of her face, scratching herself just under the eye with one of her long jagged nails. The warm blood trickled down her face onto her cracked lips.
Her thoughts moved once more to the trial. She thought about the woman with the quill that seemed to write of its own accord, the snake like chains as they had coiled around her body, restraining her to the hard wooden chair, and the old man with the long white hair and blue eyes. He had looked upon her as though he were severely disappointed. She felt oddly regretful that he had looked down upon her in that way. She felt a warm tear fall from her eyes. It washed over the thin cut; the salt stung as it mixed with the blood.
She wondered what the dementor's kiss was. The way the crowd had reacted, it seemed like they were pleased with the sentence. Only the woman with the blond hair and her son had looked as though they were disappointed and even saddened. Her heart felt heavy as she remember the look of sadness and compassion the proud blond woman seemed to have for her. She wished for some of that compassion now; she wished for warmth. She wondered if the dementor's kiss would bring her death; for, surely death would be a fit punishment for the crimes she, Bellatrix Lestrange, had committed.