Chapter 1: Belladonna's torment

Artemísia woke up again in that damn room. The walls were covered with ivy and they were moving higher, the curtains were the same as when i was awake and the only thing that differentiated was that there were only ivys, windows, curtains and the bed where Artemisia was lying.

The strong smell of beladona almost intoxicated her, it was as if she was chewing on one of its poisonous fruits and enjoying her pre-mortem moment. The girl closed her eyes and put her hand on her chest feeling the fabric of the sweater she wore hours before, lace and sweat that tickled her fingers whenever she wore. She began to imagine pink butterflies or some other flower appearing in the room, wanted to be able to visualize in her mind small fairies, but the girl knew she did not have enough imagination for that.

It's not like she expected much of her own dream, close to her sisters, Artemisia looked like a hollow shell. No enough talent or imagination to create your own talent, depending on the garden to keep entertained during the days. However, it is not as if she looked after the garden of her mother's mansion, her hands seemed to drop poisons, so watched the gardener take care of it as if it were a son. During the nights, she would sit in the closet with a lamp, looking at the carcasses of flowers and animals that she had decided, a very stupid thing, to take care of them.

That dream always reminded her of an impossible desire to be fulfilled, especially after she moved into the mansion of her late great aunt.

— Silence, my little monster, try not to mumble... — artemisia's voice came out unexpectedly, which ended up surprising even her — I have to tell you that I broke...

The girl tried to sit on the bed or open her eyes, but somehow her body was no longer doing what she was told. In a failed attempt to move her feet, Artemisia could feel the ivys rising down her legs, slowly and distressingly.

— Please don't be afraid and don't run away from me... — the ivys rose more and more, coming right up your hip and hugging half your body in seconds.

The leaves tickled and the cold stem scratched the soft skin of the girl, who already felt the tears coming down her cheeks. The extremely dim light in the room got even worse, the air was too still and it also seemed to be missing inside the girl's lungs. Despair covered his body in the same way as the ivys, which were now close to Artemisia's desperate face.

She tried to remember that it was a bad dream, tried to remember that, as much as she was alone, she was still in the bedroom, in the mansion, and under the covers. He recited the same sentence over and over again.

I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm at home. I'm home.

With a tassher from the window, Artemisia sat quickly on the bed and looked around. His whole body trembled and the sweat left his sweater glued to his skin. She hugged her knees and touched her headboard, looking at the immensity of the room that was barely illuminated by the light of the Moon. There were no ivys, no beanspread throughout the room, it was just the same empty room of feelings and full of books, papers, pencils and very flawed attempts at painting.

She hugged herself tighter, watching her almost white blonde hair descend like a cascade in front of her face. The only thing his father had managed to bring from his mother's mansion, the only inheritance of a moment of love he had. Tears began to fall like summer rain and Artemisia didn't want to worry about making them stop.

Longing eroded her chest, but in such a slow way that every night, when she had a good dream, the girl wished she would not wake up anymore. I would like to live forever dancing among the flowers, swim by the cold river of spring and harvest blacks under the warm sun. She wanted to live that dream life, the life she thought she deserved.

Artemisia only realized that one of the windows had opened when the icy breeze of dawn passed her, drying the sweat and leaving a cold touch in place. Mumbling like a child, about hating that house and that new life, the girl got up and walked quickly to close the window.

The body seemed to weigh like ten bookshelves full, her legs bent as if they were rusty, and her vision could not be better with this sudden movement, but Artemísia ignored and closed the window before returning to bed.

Since she had arrived three weeks earlier, she was no longer having good enough nights' sleep. It wasn't as if her head was light after the last suitor's wake, but at least before she went to her great-aunt's mansion she could sleep minimally well. Dreams have never been normal, it's like a prerequisite for them to exist: dreams have to be bizarre and disconnected. If you don't follow that pattern, something's very wrong.

It was an everyday thing to see people who had too many or too repeated dreams go to time to ask for advice from the Sleeping Spirits, mother Moon's helpers who were sent to translate some messages. The older sister often went until the family found out that she had fallen in love with one of the priests.

Even though her mother's mansion had a priestess, like every house of wealthy families, she was from the temple of the Spirits of the Warnings, those responsible for sending some messages at times. So it was a waste to tell her the dreams.

But this concern for the night health of Ms. Noctavia's daughters was a stop at the middle daughter, the second adopted. If Artemisia had a nightmare, some dream repeated or lived too long, the family was pointing a huge middle finger at her. It was preferable that way, anyway.

The only one who cared about these things was Artemisia's father, it was to his room that she went to when she was little. Dad always seemed to feel it and sat on the bed and with his arms open.

He always hugged her when the little girl arrived with her eyes watered and her cheeks red. Her father hugged her as if he could suck that fear and move his daughter's blonde locks.

— My little monster, what ails you?”

He always asked while sequestering his daughter's small, chubby face. Artemisia always gave a choking and desperate answer, but the father understood every time and answered:

— When fear is tormenting you and not letting you sleep, come to Daddy's room. You know I'll always hold your hand until you sleep.

And her father always kept that promise. Every night for ten years, Artemisia walked into her father's room and could only sleep when she was holding his hand and the same was telling some funny story again. Even when it wasn't fear that shook the girl's chest, he kept holding his daughter's hand until she went to sleep.

The longing deepened further into the flesh of Artemisia as she remembered those moments. The only person she could call family. But longing wouldn't bring him back, leprosy took away that little piece of paradise and genuine happiness, there was no taking it back.

With a tired sigh, physically and mentally, Artemisia covered herself up to her nose and closed her eyes dipping into sleep again.