A/N: A short experiment in first person, ties in to Impervious as a side story from Margaret West's point of view.
Rain splatters down upon me and soaks through the threadbare rags that still hang loosely over my flesh. I should really change my clothes.
But I can't.
I think it must be magic, or perhaps just memories flickering through a rotting brain, but every now and then, it's like this dress opens up a window to a world I once knew. When I look down, I don't see how there's a hole over one of my knees, or how the bottom is so frayed that I have splits in the fabric working their way almost up to my thighs. I don't notice how the high collar now sags and how the seam has completely unraveled from my right sleeve. I don't feel the cloth about to give out along my shoulder.
I see him. I see his hands running over a fine, silken dress. Red. I see him pulling me close and running his fingers through my hair, cupping my chin and kissing me. I feel his lips as though perhaps his spirit somehow lingers in this cold hell and seeks to offer me warmth.
If only I could still feel such things.
When I look down at my rags, I can almost forget how he left me behind with his pictures and property.
Was that all I was to him?
I wasn't important by any means. I was no noble, but I wasn't street trash, either. I wasn't some wretch throwing myself at any man who passed by, nor was I trying to climb the social ladder.
He came to me.
He said he'd seen me picking apples in the orchard and that he loved to watch me. He said I was so graceful that I shouldn't be trapped in such a rural life. He cherished me. Loved me.
And left me.
I'd heard him whispering with another, but when I'd come in, I'd been met with silence. The smile he'd given me...so warm, so loving. He'd kissed my forehead and told me his talks were secret.
I thought he was setting up a proposal.
The next day he was gone.
I didn't have time to wonder what had happened. The plague hit and I was one of the many victims.
Sometimes, when I look down at this dress, it disgusts me how I cling to such memories, as though I think a mere scrap of trash will force a beat from my heart. I loathe how I try so desperately to keep what's left of it intact and how I want to cry whenever I find a new tear in it.
I might cry, if I were capable.
There are moments when I think I am free of the spell. Moments when I am so furious over being left behind, so indignant to think that he could give me such a gift the day before he abandoned me like a doll he'd grown tired of. I get so angry that I grab at this worthless dress and ready myself to rip it off, to throw him away as he did me.
But then I remember that soft look in his eyes. The way his skin would crinkle around his lips as he smiled.
Why couldn't he have cursed me? Told me he hated me? That I'd never been anything more than an amusing past time to him? Why had he kissed my neck and told me we'd talk about our future in the morning?
I could take it if it were just my body that had been broken, but this...
I would not wish this pain upon any creature, living or not.
No one deserves to be Forsaken.