Eclipse of the Damned || Original Story ||

Chapter 2

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Days had gone by excruciatingly slow. Too slow.

Each second dragged on, making the passing time feel like an unyielding punishment. Every breath Irene took felt heavy, as if the weight of the world sat squarely on her chest, pressing down with a relentless force. The moments that once filled her home with laughter and warmth had turned to cold echoes of what once was. The silence in the house was deafening. Every step she took felt sluggish, as though she were moving through thick mud, unable to escape the pull of her despair.

Irene's once radiant appearance had become a haunting reflection of her internal suffering. Her hair, which had been thick, vibrant, and full of life, now hung limp and lifeless. The silky white strands that once framed her face had thinned, no longer boasting the bouncy volume they once held. Each strand seemed to mirror the toll the stress and grief were taking on her. The striking white was now a canvas of sorrow, stained with black roots that crept upward, overtaking the brilliance like a spreading disease. Only the very tips held the faintest remnants of her former self, now a light, almost ghostly grey.

Her eyes had dulled too. Once, they shimmered like molten gold, reflecting the vibrancy of life and the love she held for her family. Now, they had sunken into a dark, almost hollow shade of brown. The gleam was gone, replaced by a vacant stare that spoke volumes of the pain she endured. They no longer sparkled with curiosity or joy. . . instead, they reflected nothing but her misery, a stark contrast to their former glow. Her once smooth, youthful face now bore the weight of her torment, deep lines forming under her eyes, sagging bags hanging low, a clear sign of her sleepless nights and endless tears.

Irene had not been able to sleep since that terrible night. Each time she closed her eyes, the image of Ambrose's mangled body would flash before her mind's eye, jolting her awake in terror. His pink hair, the same shade as their daughter Blossom's, had been soaked in blood, torn from the body she once knew so intimately. No amount of light could chase away the darkness that had taken root in her mind. She had become a shell of her former self, trapped in a cycle of despair and longing for a man she could never touch again.

Food, too, had lost its appeal. What once brought her joy—the act of cooking for her family, the shared meals, the laughter at the dinner table—had now become a burden. Each bite tasted like ash, her appetite lost in the wake of her grief. She would sit at the table, staring at the untouched plate before her, the memories of happier times playing like a cruel movie in her mind. It felt as though her very soul had withered away, leaving behind nothing but an empty husk, struggling to continue.

But amidst the overwhelming pain, there was one thing that kept her going—her daughters.

They were the last piece of Ambrose left in the world, the last living remnants of their love. Cherry and Blossom had become her anchor, the only reason she found the strength to get out of bed each morning. Every tear she shed, every night she spent awake, every bite of food she forced herself to swallow—it was all for them. They were innocent, unaware of the true horrors that plagued the world. She had to protect them, to nurture them, to be there for them, no matter how much it hurt. For her daughters, she would endure anything.

The realization that her daughters needed her, that they were her sole responsibility now, filled her with both purpose and dread. The pressure weighed heavily on her. She couldn't afford to break down.
She couldn't allow her grief to consume her entirely, for if she did, who would be there for her girls? They were so young, so fragile. They had already lost their father—losing their mother too would be unthinkable. Irene couldn't let that happen. No matter how deep her pain ran, no matter how broken she felt inside, she had to hold on, for them.