7 The Livings

Across the fresh harvest, the rusty house had been refurbished of logs notched at the ends and laid one upon another with the spaces filled with plaster, moss, mud, or perhaps dried manure.

Deriving out of a few errands away, the lanterns that litten the front porch collided its glow. Celeste no longer doubted the presence of the person who could hardly be scrutinized sauntering back and forth in that porch, thumping a fist against the wooden railing.

She wouldn't be alone again. The person was loitering there to enhance her terrors. She strengthened her stance as she walked down the green lawn, shaded dark by the dismal night.

Built beside the log, in the barn, the cattle wailed, must have predicted her trouble. She tugged her feet faster and the sharp breath she dragged out warned the man, forcing him to stop his pace and turned toward her.

She scorned how nasty the man looked in his cotton twilled trousers and shirt. His dark beard and hair told a tale. He probably hadn't shaved for months.

It became even harder to breathe when she approached the door, positioned beside the man who would be around thirty.

Ignoring his existence, as Celeste scoured for the key inside her drawers' pockets, the man impatiently flinched his shoulders. "Fast! I have been waiting for an hour. It's so cold. Unlock the door."

"Get lost." Clutching onto the key inside her fabric, she didn't draw it out but focused on the man instead. Every day, she had been used to seeing men like him. The numbers that came after midnight to avoid sentries, were remarked as penalized womanizers once. As a result, there was not even any necessity of asking what this man wants; which would be undoubtedly not only debts but some benefits of a lone female.

The threat in her voice enraged the man and eventually brought a grimace to his face. "I told you to unlock the door."

Celeste left the key there and swiveled toward him. Depicting rigidity was nothing tough. She grunted in annoyance. "And I told you to fucking get lost. Didn't you hear that?"

The man laughed atrociously as he grasped a handful of her hair in his fist, making her grind her teeth. "You know... I just discover why your dad didn't kill you yet. It's beneficial to have a pretty daughter. Trading your body will definitely buy him a fortune."

Nope, neither his violence hurt nor did his words. Nothing hurt at all. Expecting something decent from this man would be ridiculous. Moreover, what he said wasn't a lie. Her dad, himself once provoked these creditors to lay their hands on her because of his debts. Since childhood, she had been the substitute of his sins and depravities. Did he never change and had been always a terrible man? Or he had a history too? If there was one, what polluted his principles like this? She wondered if it was his lover or lover(s).

With her chin up, she dug her nails into the man's wrist and jerked his hand away, getting rid of his grip on her hair. But the next second, he went faster to push her down on the ground, spread her legs, and hovered on the top of her body, fastening her hands.

Snorting in disbelief, she kicked his penis folding her knee. He however remained easygoing and refused to let go of her hands. "Get your filthy hands off from me. I told you hundreds of times, I don't know where he is." If she had a single clue, she wouldn't have thought twice before providing them his address. Why would she? She had learned to be selfish a long ago.

"That doesn't matter. You are his daughter. You can also pay me back."

The urge to puke was erected by the alcoholic scent that his clothes enhanced. Celeste never felt so disgusted before. "I don't want to pay you back. Did you hear that?"

"You rude bitch, I swear to cum inside your big mouth." He couldn't wait any longer. Unchaining his zipper, he reached out to move her drawers but stopped as her exclamation jingled loud.

"Oh! It's so big. Let me hold it."

The enthusiasm in her eyes while they fixed on his groin was able to dupe him. "Fast." With that, he stood up, leaving her to kneel.

Squatting down, she shut her eyes before picking the zipper's pull tab, flattening the exposed expanse to the bottom stop. Once she realized the groin had burst out of his pant, she pulled the slider body up, hard; entrapping his flesh in the chain.

"Ahhhh."

His scream brought a satisfied smirk to Celeste's face. To witness such a show, her eyes flipped open. "Ouch! Does that hurt?" With the obvious drama, she heaved herself up, furrowing her brows. "What? Is your iron-hard tumescence broken?" Her sarcastic tone impelled the smirk wider across her lips.

Whilst his face contorted in pain, he pressed his palm against the wound that had exacerbated. "Jeez. I-I will come back to kill you."

"Um-hm. I am sure about that." Celeste responded confidently when he began stumbling toward the footbridge. After his presence perished in the darkness, a sigh left her lips. Amelia tended to warn Celeste about the deads. But here, she had been fighting with the livings every day. The livings were the threat to her, not the deads. Ridiculous, right?

Entering her log, she flamed the lanterns and slid from her corset and drawers, having only her shift on. The clothes shut in the trunk before she neared the table which she made with bamboos a few years ago. An old diary left opened on the heel. She received it as her birthday gift from Riggs and Amelia.

The bird feather in her hand filled its hollow shaft inside the inkwell. Celeste rode the reservoir on the thick paper, scribbled down a new word below some more dozens. The list went on like this: trapped, storm, creditor, ra*ped, hurt, bruised, support, gift, love, nervous, swamp, and then it ended with death.

Despite their poverty, her father never bothered to educate his child. Celeste learned to write a few words from Amelia but she never made it to write a full sentence. She knew she would break bundles of feathers if she tries to write something meaningful.

There were times when she wanted to learn but every attempt was a failure itself. These words that she inscribed each day are the proof of her daily life, as well as a way to learn in Riggs's words.

A freezy wind almost extinguished the flame but she was faster to shield the lantern with her hands and immediately the stains in her hands made her swallow a breath. Blood.

The phenomenon of the swampland flashed in front of her eyes right away. That dead body, the blood rain, the stilt house, the painter and his painting—every single thing urged shivers through her veins.

Blood, dead body, stilt house, painter; she jotted down even though her fingers trembled, hands bathed in sweats.

"People who cross the swamp at night never come back. The land is forbidden for humans because vampires live on the other side. They are deadly, they are undead." People here tended to believe such a thing all these years. Something was indeed bizarre about the swampland that adjoins two different territories—Territory of Winderfell & Territory of Alberro. The king roughly forbade mortals to enter the land.

But why? And what hid behind that oddity? She wanted to explore, and her drastic curiosity led her to visit the land tonight. She never thought it would end with a murder. Did he really die? Or was that just a delusion? No, if it was so, the painter wouldn't have painted the scenario.

Shaking her head, she jerked those thoughts off and threw herself on the pallet, the harshness of the straw mattress brushed her warm body. She pulled up the rough wool blanket and covered herself with it.

Tomorrow would be a long day, probably full of spectacles. The odd Prince she met today didn't look pleasing at all. Undoubtedly, he would give her a hard time.