Page 21 of Enslaved

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

It is our duty to protect such gifts. To nurture them, to shield them from the ill winds of this or any world.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

Such beautiful minds need care. Like flowers in a garden.

You and I—we’re not like them. We don’t know what they endure, gifted as they are. We don’t know how they struggle.

It’s hard for them—the burden of genius.

But that is why we care for them. It is our great calling. Our noble responsibility.

You are just like me, Clara. You are strong enough to bear the pain. You are strong enough to weather the storm. Because you know the cause is right. A holy calling. The calling of wifehood. Of sisterhood. Of womanhood.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

Remember, no one else can do what we do. Which means, no one else can understand. They cannot see as we see. And they will try to sway you, my love. They will try to convince you, saying their ways are better, their plans for you are right.

But you know.

In your heart you know.

You know how he loves you.

You know how you love him.

You only have each other. Just the two of you. Against all odds.

And you are the strong one. You are the one who must protect him.

Guard him. Guide him. Shield him.

Love him.

Love him.

Save him.

Save him.

I don’t know when the rhythm of that voice and the rhythm of the brush became one and the same. I only know the voice is no longer in my ear, but in my head, and the brush is once more held in my own hand while I run it through my hair. The presence at my back, which had felt so real mere moments ago, is gone. I am alone in the room once more.

I continue brushing. Stroke, stroke, stroke. Even as the words echo in my mind:

Love him.

Love him.

Save him.

Save him.

I open my eyes. Stare into the glass.

But the face in the mirror has no eyes. Only blood streaking her cheeks, and black threads crisscrossed to sew shut the empty, bleeding sockets.

The palace bells toll four dolorous strokes when I wake the following morning.

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