When the one sister was murdered, (an offering of grace, maybe, as she hacked her brains out from a never-ending blood cough,) she knew she was being murdered. The dresses and gemstones were locked away in a trunk. Her soul lived in that precious trunk. She would rise from the canopied bed, walk the room, open the closet, finger the gowns, pick up the jewelry, try the door handle. She could not leave the room. She knew she was dead. She knew one day someone would unlock the door, the trunk. She would wait. She would sleep, rise, walk, touch, sleep, rise, walk, touch. No view from the blacked-out window. No sound. Just sleeping and waking and touching. She was alone in these patterns. Today a blocked calendar is better than a to do list. We spend time on what we value. The dead sister spent time on revenge, her rage against those who once loved her. The dresses would remain in the trunk forever, if she could help it. One day her skinny pale arms would thrust forth from the open trunk and decimate everyone in their path, To touch humans and destroy them, that is what we risk when we wake, we walk, we touch, we rise. Her skinny pale arms reached for the next throat.
