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There was no warmth in the village, other than what my mother provided in our small home. Father was an adventurer, so he often spent time abroad for extended periods of time. I could recall them disagreeing over his endless pursuit of something whenever he was home over the past few months leading up to that night; a pursuit that now in my adult years I can deduce was ultimately what lead to whatever had happened to him.
It was fall, and I remember hunching over my bowl of hot tocană with my mother at the table. She tapped her fingers on the wooden surface rhythmically as she made a comment about the rain- 'Barovia's lullaby was hushing the dead back to sleep'. I watched her curiously; my mother was endlessly mysterious and inspiring. She was a proper witch, and in tune with things that I could not quite comprehend. So, when she seemed nervous or restless it was a bit infectious. I was caught staring, and she'd offer me the ghost of her smile to ease my silent concern. Her long, dark waves of hair shadowed her eyes often, but I have always been good at reading people, I suppose. Even at that age, I could see past the illusion.
The door swung open rather suddenly, the shape of my father's lithe elven form slinked through the doorway. I could not see him fully, the candlelight was limited to the table- lights were kept minimal in the noapte for obvious reasons. My startled mother's head snapped to him as he lumbered in with an unrecognizable posture, but she had already risen to meet him before he could approach. It was when she reached past him to push the door shut that he moved in a sudden response- a hand to her wrist. It looked unfamiliar, slightly elongated in the low-light. A string of low, growled words escaped his lips towards my mother.
"There's no other way," he begun. "I'll save you both."
His words were pained, and I could hear my mother beginning to struggle against him as his voice raised, repeating those words. His voice became unfamiliar; the warmth I knew was replaced with the jagged, cold edge of madness.
"Go to your room." My mother barked to me. I briefly saw the sheen of a blade reflect the candlelight before I turned from my stool and ran to our bedroom.
Truthfully, the rest is a bit of a blur. I remember my burgundy blanket catching my attention. I snatched it, and threw it over my head, then crawled under the bed. I decided I would remain under my blanket, no matter what I heard-- the sounds of the end.
The bedroom door being opened once more by my mother, holding it shut with all her strength.
What I could only assume was my father shouting incoherently from the other side, bashing against it again and again.
My mother inevitably losing the battle against his relentless onslaught, the door bursting open.
Screaming, shouting.
The sickening snap of bones, and flesh being torn.
Something wet hitting the floor.
Quiet sobbing between the panting before the silence that followed.
I was frozen there for what felt like an eternity; I could feel him watching me. My only protection being the thin fabric of my burgundy blanket.
If I could not see him, perhaps he could not see me. My eyes squeezed shut, and I held my breath.
Then I heard a voice, a distant shout. Immediately, the much heavier form of my father shirked away as if brought to a moment of clarity, his footfalls tapering off out the front door he had left slightly ajar.
Quickened footsteps entered soon after. I counted the pairs from my hiding spot: one, two, three pairs. They'd stopped just before the bedroom and were welcomed by the sight of what was left of my mother.
"Gods, what has he done?" I remember a male voice saying.
"Where's Helena?" Another male.
"There!" A woman.
I felt arms wrap around my covered form, and I was pulled towards the feminine voice. The others urged her to take me and run, and she did so without hesitation.
The slate-grey skies played their lullaby that evening, as they often do, but I would never quite hear it the same. My fast beating heart thrumming in my ears, pulsing the aggressive hush of the rain in and out like a stern guardian urging me to be silent. But there were no words I could speak; I lifted my head to peer over her shoulder as my vision unblurred. My eyes were fixed on the slick, cracked cobblestones we left behind- questions begun floating through the peripheral of my semi-conscious mind- questions no child should ever have to ask themselves.
.. Why did I live? Did he spare me?
My burgundy blanket was the only thing affording me any sanctuary from the horror of that night. It's also the last thing I have from that time- from that life and that name I left behind.
I carry it with me even now, that burgundy cloth- it offers me a comfort from the harsh and unforgiving world around me.
Protection from death's eyes on me, wherever they may be, on the other side of the fabric.
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