Death of a Nightingale

CHAPTER 1: WELCOME TO THE NIGHT

I can hear the water dripping. Drip. Drip. Pause. Drip. 

I don't like it. At least be reliable in your rhythm. Drip. Pause. Pause. Pause. Drip. 

I focus on it. And all of a sudden, it's shy. Utter silence. My eyes narrow and I wait. Has it stopped raining through the remaining parts of the glass? A minute passes. Any statue would envy my stillness. No move, no breath. I scan the ceiling. 

It's quite beautiful. An old greenhouse, I suppose. A large chapel dome spans across, barely containing the rudeness of the weeds and rubble that have taken over this long-forgotten glory. Most of the rusted cast-iron frame remains, like a skeleton, holding a few last pieces of glass between them. Drip. 

There you are! I smirk. As if the water was taunting me, playing a very dull game of 'hide-and-go-seek'. I shake my head at myself and the movement makes me sway. 

I've been hanging here for a while. The rope makes a musical sound, not quite a squeak. Back and forth. I encourage it to swing wider. I was particularly clever with this attempt and hung myself in the middle of the room. 

For most people, it would have done the trick. With one step down, the rope would have tightened into a snap, breaking the neck and gently lilting their body into oblivion. What a thought...Oblivion. For me, it did no such thing. The step down was calculated. The deepest part of this stunning, dilapidated structure. I stepped, the rope snapped and creaked, and then I swung until I stopped in stillness, looking at peeling wallpaper, listening to the elusive drip. Drip. I laugh. 

It is indeed taunting me. And now I can't reach the wall to free myself and try again. Note to self: If you're not sure that it will actually kill you, give yourself a less awkward escape route. I sway some more and stretch out my arms to grab hold of the unkempt bramble of greenery. Almost. So close. And...said greenery is also not on my side as it breaks off in my hand. Now I'm holding what looks like an odd wedding bouquet while swinging in frustration. 

I realize, to my horror, that I've been quite rude. I entirely skipped introductions. My name is Graciella Lucard, but let's make that a bit shorter and more era-appropriate. Just call me Grace. I would like to clarify that I don't joke about suicide nor take it lightly by any means. I have some very specific reasons for my choice, and once I tell you, you might even agree that a world without me is much better off. 

I stretch out boldly and grab the rope upwards with my feet. Yes, I'm athletic you could say. More than that, actually. I wasn't always like that though. My favorite pastime was studying with my father, Dr. Tepēz Lucard. He was a truly wonderful man, even for that time. He encouraged me to learn and research his favorite field of medicine and even let me assist in autopsies. 

Finally! I manage to remove the noose over my head and shake out my long hair. Upside down. For a moment I feel free. I angle my head and look at the floor. Old, intricate furniture, broken by weather and abandonment. Just like any heart would be. Forgive me, we were talking about dead bodies. My father firmly believed in science. He wanted me to learn as much as I could to be the master of my own destiny, even as a woman. Times were a little different back then. He was also an immigrant, but I never heard the story. He was very quiet about the circumstances that made him run away from Europe. But he did. Left our entire family behind to be with my mother and raise my sister and me. Every other night, we stole a body from the local village cemetery and examined it for possible causes of death. Back then ninety percent of people died of consumption. It was a pretty safe guess. The giveaway: pale, paper-thin skin, red lips, sometimes with a bit of blood still oozing from them, hollow cheeks, and bright, frightened eyes. The villagers didn't agree with that diagnosis, of course. But we'll have to forgive their ignorance. 

You see, my new friend, people back then didn't know how bodies went through the process of decomposition. It hadn't been properly studied yet. So, when they examined a corpse and the gasses inside caused it to quite suddenly pop up to sit-up and stare at them, nails still growing, hair still growing, bloody lips, what do you believe their first guess was? Not consumption, I can assure you. I saw it happen many times: they were so scared, that they staked the corpse to its casket, ensuring it to never rise from the grave. 

In hindsight, that seems incredibly silly. Turns out, stakes really ain't gonna do it. They're a nuisance, don't get me wrong. You're gonna be busy twisting it out in very tight confinement, cursing colorfully without anyone to enjoy your naughty vocabulary, and after all of that (which can take days by the way), you have to dig yourself out of six feet of dirt. Not fun. But not unlike hanging yourself in the middle of a very tall room, definitely not deadly. And that, my friend, is the problem. Nothing seems to be deadly. As you may have gathered, I am immortal. I can tell you that eternal life is very overrated. But let me show you why. Come along, we're already late.