There was an ethereal, a weary woman.
She was serene, facing up the white ceiling, her eyes closed, her back leaned back on the brim of the bathtub, soaked onyx hued—wavy hair flowing and floating.
She laid bare, arms resting on the rims of the tub, sumberged in the cold water.
The ground night of July, obscured in grim darkness, the heaven was enraged.
The wind howled, the thunder roared, shuddering the terrain of mortal. Plummeting on the window, yielding through—the branch patterns of dire lightning strikes in the sky, flaming the flickers in the gloomy master bathroom.
A melody tuned... A voice trickled in honey, sang she, so beautiful and sweet; the lullaby she often sang to her little boy.
She felt the whirling, the furious roars of thunder. She peered at the long thorned vines of lightning, mirroring fluttering luminescence in the eerie shadows of the walls.
Heavy wailings of rain, the painful howling of wind...
Neva was singing an aria, and she had veiled the vision—as she was sinking in the coldness of the water.
Her form pale and numbed, yet she did not spare the cold a shiver.
Leisure and slow, the water fell over her fair; heavenly features.
"Neva?"
"Are you alright?"
She heard the faint, muffled voice.
Neva was delighted; her head clear.
She was drowning; and yet she was flying with the clouds.
"Say something Neva."
Loud knockings on the door, ushered by Ishmael's panicked voice.
"Open the door!"
Harsh muffled blows striked on the door.
.
.
.
She was helpless; she was in control.
It was suffocating; it was liberating.
It felt agonizing; it earned her tranquility.
Ishmael broke open the door with a thump.
He stumbled his way in, black eyes obscured in feat.
His throat tightened,
With weak legs, heavy steps he reached out to Neva.
To Neva; who was engulfed in the water.
As Ishmael slid his hands into the tub, he flinched at the coldness of the water.
His arms snaking around her limp form, he carried her out, bringing an unbreathing Neva to the warmth of his chest.
Her naked body, ashen and ice-cold.
His own breathing was ragged, shivering hands brushed away the damped strands veiling her pale beautiful face.
Ishmael sat there, on the white tiled floor, embracing her.
"What have you done?"
In the doorway, two maids gasped peeking through inside.
Their gaze sore with terror of the assumed future to unfold.
The sublime young madam, she was forever cold and never uttered a word.
Astonishing them on that faithful day three months ago, when their master, out of nowhere brought the woman home, and now, she lay there unconscious in his arms.
Great fault embraced them.
Terror encased their chests.
They lowered their head and shuddered, making way as Ishmael past by them out the bathroom in a haste, carrying Neva's naked body wrapped in a towel.