Silence— a lifeless void that embraced the darkness and suffocated the warmth of life. Priscilla found herself enveloped by that same silence, the dark and silent abyss that she woke to, devoid of light or color. Her body felt weightless, a feather in a soft breeze pushed along without a destination. Priscilla tried to lift herself; the pain she had felt was gone, a figment of her imagination. She looked at her barely visible hands in the dark, her burnt flesh— gone. Confusion struck her hard; she gazed around, darkness— ever-present darkness, shapes shifted overhead, mountainous and large— straining her sight; she could barely make out the landmasses floating like clouds above her head.


    Priscilla looked down, but there was nothing— no land beneath her feet, no grassy pasture to call her own. It was wrong to say even that there was nothing beneath her feet, as her feet didn''t exist in the first place. Priscilla hovered there, a mere soul drifting through the abyss. ''Where am I?'' She thought as she floated there. She began to move, to wander the space she found herself in, but she discovered that her senses seemed detached— alienated from her form. Just as the cloud floats unbeknownst to it, so too did she. The emptiness was an infinite, incomprehensible abyss that she was thrust into, terrifying as it should have been, but to Priscilla— It was something different. It was— relief. It was— freedom. The incessant harassment, abuse, and pain were all gone finally. She smiled, or at least she felt like she was smiling since, in this place, it was impossible to tell.


    "It''s a bit lonely and dark... but it isn''t too bad!" Priscilla tried to say optimistically, but her voice barely drifted from her lips before fading into the void. Silence— you could never cheat its eternal embrace. Priscilla looked ahead toward the floating mass, straining herself— in an attempt to reach out and approach them.


    Priscilla drifted through the void endlessly, carried by the flow of time, an elusive force in this place— one that she could not grasp or comprehend. Her muddled and detached thoughts swam in stages; happiness and relief filled her with hope— of the peace she could have, the freedom away from her noble life. Sadness and despair— the fear of death that consumed her. But the stage she returned to the most was grief and indignation— the burning anger that swelled inside her. It fueled her with no end in sight, forced her to the brink of insanity as she cursed her powerlessness, and forced her to scream and shout, but no matter how hard she tried, the void rejected her desires.


    As Priscilla struggled to cope with her turmoil, she began to reminisce. She could see the day when her father came into her life, the way her mother''s lifeless, cold, and petrified body lay in front of her. Dead without warning, forced to abandon her most prized treasure— her daughter. Priscilla''s mother had always been there for the girl, protecting and nurturing her with endless love— something beautiful and rare for the slums they lived in. Priscilla huddled in a corner, trembling from the biting winter''s chill. She had nothing, and nobody left. Tears raced down her rosy face as she sat there, lost and broken, nibbling on scraps of bread that her mother had taken from the backside of a restaurant''s waste barrel a few days earlier.


    There was nothing Priscilla could have done back then— she had been just a child of six, and her mother had always warned her to be careful. Never attract too much attention, and do everything not to get sold off or enslaved— she wracked her little head off, how to survive and what to do. It was then that she heard a loud knock on her slumhouse. The girl had flattened into the corner out of fright, pressing herself warily against the wooden wall, when a large man walked in uninvited. The man''s black eyes were chilling and cold, a hollow abyss that even as a young girl had terrified her. Young she may have been, but Priscilla recognized his garments as noble attire. It was not common in the slums, but sometimes they could be seen. She was too young to know that if nobles visited the slums, they had their agendas at play, seeking someone or something to further their plans.


    Valentine gazed down at the woman, his cold gaze a mirror of disgust that reflected upon it. He stepped over her body, walking toward the small girl. "Child, come with me," Valentine spoke as he reached his hand out.


    Priscilla had eyed him warily, pressing herself into the corner as far back as she could. In the moment, she was but a wounded beast— If she had fangs to bare, she would have bared them at the man. Valentine merely sighed— an emotionless sound that Priscilla couldn''t have understood back then. "Girl, I''m your father. Now that your mother is gone, you must come with me. Do you desire to die out in the cold?" He asked, his voice both firm and soft.


    It was at that moment that Priscilla''s fate shifted into something uncontrolled by her. The wariness inside her melted away, and she found herself feeling warmth from the man. Warmth she desperately wanted to take hold of. It caused her to reach out to him; reluctant she was, aware that it was a risk, but she took it despite the doubts.


    Priscilla sighed; the reminiscence had been too much for her and her already emotional heart. She tried to comprehend how long she had been there, but time was fleeting within the endlessly dark scape she found herself in. Purgatory was a nightmare one could never wake from. It was not something she knew or would know for a long time still. Time in purgatory was fleeting, a cloud in the sky. You see it drifting by as you look up, but you blink, and it is gone. So, too, was time— gone without a trace.


    Priscilla''s restless, silent, and dark torment continued. The fierce determination buried within her thrummed in her chest, ignoring purgatory''s assaulting whims as she resonated with the space. It pulsed melodically and unnoticeably, awakening something in the deep, dark void.


    Because of Priscilla''s efforts, despite that fact being unknown to her at the time, a gaze scanned her from countless miles away. Penetrating the darkness that surrounded her. It could see through the deceit and lies of the space, the lonesome girl swirling in a shroud of fog, her non-corporeal figure drifting atop a slab of land that floated softly across the darkened purgatory sky.


    "What a fierce determination for such a young and tormented soul." The woman''s soft voice trembled the void around her with a strange power that resonated with the space. "How long has it been since someone has endured this place''s confining grip..."


    "Has the time of providence come? Time, what a cruel mistress you remain to be..." The woman laughed, her voice stretching the ethereal space around her. "You hide everything out of reach, promising us release and never delivering upon it."


    "What about you, child? What''s your story that caused you to have such apprehensions toward death? Such a strong attachment to the world, fueled by such torrentuous emotions?" The woman''s ethereal voice wondered, sifting through the darkened void as her gaze swirled with lustrous power.


    <hr>


    Her verdant gaze penetrated the long-forgotten depths of the river of time. Before her eyes, the past opened. There, that woman knelt, her choked sobs mingling with the pattering of rain. Mumbles escaped her lips; she was begging in a hushed tone for the elder who lived there to help her. That woman was desperate— but she knew she could not be loud, for the elder had a temper. The woman held her protruding belly carefully despite her forehead pressed against the dirt. Even the biting cold of that wintery night couldn''t force her to leave; she trembled fiercely, but she had to stay— for her child''s sake.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    From within the house, the aged woman peered out, cursing under her breath. "Ya shouldn''t have come here. Ya damned optimistic fool." She muttered inaudibly, resenting the fact that life was so predictable. ''''Damn ya to hell."


    "Ya don''t give up, do ya? Ya trying to freeze to death?" The aged woman''s voice croaked out from the closed door. It creaked open, revealing a leather-skinned old crone, her speckled flesh covered in blackened dots and patches of purple and green. Visible history of drugs, poison, and the violence typical of the slums. "Ya know I don''t service the slumrats anymore, Marigold." The old crone spat.


    "Please, Madam! My child must get a chance; you know that she''s fated for more than dying in the womb! I don''t have the strength to bring her into the world. I need you, Madam! I beg you, please help me deliver my babe." Marigold begged, tears coating the icy earth in a mother''s warmth. She was powerless and pitiful, the definition of a slumrat without hope— but even as a slumrat, she desperately wanted the best for her child.


    The old crone stared down at Marigold with pity but also concealed disappointment at the woman''s decision, "Ya crazy wench, I swear! Don''t regret this." She sighed, "If ya die, don''t blame it on these old bones, ya hear me?"


    "No, Madam! I could never blame you!" Marigold revealed a bright smile that warmed the chilling air, "Thank you, thank you so much, Madam! My babe''s life is in your hands!" She bowed her head with gratitude; her face had been caked in the dirt and grime of the slums— a necessity one was taught at an early age, especially for women. But one could see the inherent beauty of the woman that underneath, the skin around her eyes creased from exhaustion, bruises healed— but their marks remained. Her figure told countless stories— tragedies of a slumrat''s life. No matter the story, however, gratitude remained ingrained into her. Marigold''s eyes glowed with joy, "Madam, she''s really a strong one! You''ll see... everyone will see her worth; she''s a fighter. I just know it!"


    "Ya... damn... ai." The old crone sighed, uncertain what to even say in this situation. It had been a long time since she isolated herself away from the slum''s people, but faced with someone like Marigold, she found herself unable to reject her. "Fine... Get in, will ya." She finally spat, giving up on her struggle and letting the woman into her abode.


    It had not been long after when the cries of life echoed from within. Marigold''s bright grin stretched from ear to ear as she looked down at her baby. "You''re beautiful, my child. You''ve got your mother''s hair and your father''s eyes." She kissed her on her forehead as fatigue took her into a long dream.


    <hr>


    As the woman from purgatory peered into the past, a year passed as if it were the blink of an eye. The crack of dawn struck like lightning as Marigold weaved through the city; she had turned into a scavenger of the night, sifting through the detritus of the city''s nightlife, collecting every edible scrap she could find. Nestled on her back was her tiny child. Priscilla slept bundled in a warm cloth that wrapped around Marigold. Priscilla''s rosy face peeked ever-so-slightly from the bundle, her hands pressing against the woman''s back with every breath Priscilla took.


    Marigold carried on like this day after day, scavenging in the outer districts for hours each morning before returning to the slums. She would feed Priscilla and put her to sleep before Marigold would head to a slumhouse bar. It reminded her of her past; the drugs, alcohol, women, and gambling were prominent. Vices were rampantly on display as those craving them indulged. She had been fortunate, though, that the Matron allowed her to clean. Instead of being a serving woman, it was a far better option. She did have to do the work of multiple people, as difficult as it happened to be, but it was the far better alternative.


    Another two years flew by— The pitter-patter of tiny feet echoed in Marigold''s slumhouse. Priscilla ran around chasing after a black-winged Cressel butterfly, her giddy laughter spreading contagiously. Priscilla had been energetic and full of life and vibrancy, something foreign and strange to the otherwise dull and depressing slums. Most tried to survive; they survived not to live, but they only lived to survive another day. Priscilla, however, was different; she instinctively lived, not for survival''s sake, but for the sake of living.


    Nothing beautiful could remain pure forever; three more years passed in a heartbeat, and Priscilla''s sixth year came to be. The once giddy and happy slumhouse— now drowned in sobbing wails. Priscilla leaned down, hugging Marigold with her paltry arms. Marigold''s pale complexion and hollow eyes became a sad contrast to the woman she had been only years prior. The woman coughed painfully as a trail of blood ran down the side of her mouth. Priscilla held onto Marigold tightly, resting her moist eyes against the woman''s chest. She feared letting go, as if letting go meant her mother would disappear from her life forever.


    Marigold''s coughs thudded loudly against the inner walls of their slumhouse; Marigold mustered what strength she could— to stroke her daughter''s head— her weak touch, powerless. Tears continued rolling down Priscilla''s face, feeling her mother''s cold, weak hand.


    "Don''t cry, my child," Marigold spoke, her voice rasping in her chest. She lifted her hand, pressing it lightly against the girl''s chest, feeling her heart beating with life. "You''re destined for happiness and greatness, my child. Never forget this."


    Marigold''s gaze drifted slightly, eyeing the ceiling as a teardrop rolled down her cheek, "The stars above seem distant and cold. Powerful and unreachable, but you must remember that nothing in this life is unreachable." Marigold''s voice faded through her words, weakness setting in, "I''ll have to go, my child. But I''ll always be watching from above..."


    "No, Mommy! You can''t... You can''t leave me!" Priscilla whimpered, tears flowing down her face, "What should Prissy do without you?"


    "There there, my child. Hush baby, don''t you cry." Marigold patted Priscilla''s head lovingly, using what little strength that remained. "It''ll be hard on you, my child. You must go to granny''s house and keep growing until you realize your potential. Promise me this, my child. Go to granny''s!" The woman forced her words resolutely through pained coughs.


    "No, Mommy! I''m not going anywhere!" Priscilla refused stubbornly, "I''ll be with you forever!"


    "Child! Don''t be stubborn! Listen to your mother, promise me!" Marigold said sternly, a bloody cough erupting from her body from the strain.


    Priscilla sniffled helplessly, her puffy eyes eager to burst into tears again. "I''ll be good, Mommy. I promise, so please... Don''t leave me!" She spoke through sniffles, her tears flowing uncontrollably soon after.


    Marigold''s hand fell beside Priscilla; the woman had wanted to say more, but her sight blurred, and her voice escaped her. Priscilla cried out— bawled until her voice was hoarse. Her mournful wails gave the silent room the only tinge of life.


    Days later, Priscilla still sat there huddled in that freezing room, listless and devoid of joy. Her promise to her mother floated in her mind; she knew what she had to do. But the brokenness in her heart overpowered the logic. Marigold still lay there motionless in front of Priscilla. The biting cold snapped at her body— preserving parts of it in an eternal embrace. It was then— that man walked into Priscilla''s life. Calming her thoughts and granting her a path to follow, but also blinding her from her final promise.


    Bonus Image; Priscilla drifting through the Abyss.


    Ft. Midjourney