"I see…stars. Wait, no, not stars…" She paused, then squinted her eyes. She was staring at a wall but claimed she was seeing stars.
"The Walls, they are shifting! Look…Look!
She screamed and then clapped her hands hysterically before erupting into deranged laughter.
Taking the hairpin from the floor, she began to draw lines on the walls. The pointy part of the hairpin cut through the walls, carving out lines and scattered marks.
Each day she dragged herself toward it, hair falling like a veil over her face, and with the one thing she still possessed—a bent, rusting hairpin—she scratched and scratched. At first the marks were crude lines, scattered and uneven, stretching across the stone like claw marks. Then they multiplied. Whole sections of the wall were covered in them, layers upon layers, until it looked as though the stone itself bled with her frenzy.
Some scratches stood alone, straight as tally marks. Others looped into crooked circles, spirals, or childlike patterns that ended abruptly, as if she had forgotten what she meant halfway through. In one corner she carved the outline of a cradle over and over again, each smaller than the last, until the last one was no bigger than a fingernail.
She pressed her forehead against those etchings until her skin bruised, whispering,
"Hush, sleep, hush."
Her nails, once delicate and well-kept, had grown crooked and jagged from too much chewing—gnawed down in fits of madness.
Sometimes she laughed at her own work, nodding at the walls as though they understood her secret language.
Tamina's eyes had lost any glint of life. Her seductive eyes were now swollen, with dark circles, heavy from sleepless nights. Her red hair was disheveled and tangled; it had not been combed for days.
Everyone in the castle believed she had run mad; sometimes her laughter could be heard at night, like a horrifying wail.
"Once upon a time…" she whispered, still drawing lines on the walls. The room she was locked in was a place for animals; it hadn't been cleaned for days. That was because she would charge at anyone who came to clean it, asking for her baby.
"There was a beautiful princess… I have forgotten her name." She laughed, tightening her grip on the hairpin.
"I will remember; I will remember her name. What is her name?
She screamed, throwing the hairpin, gnashed her teeth, and pulled her hair violently.
Her breath was ragged; her fingers quivered. She curled up on the floor, her lashes wet with tears.
"I will remember her name, I will remember, I will… I will! She kept saying as tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Tamina, her name is Tamina."
She said, then sniffed; suddenly she started laughing again, her voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling.
She crawled to where the hairpin was and picked it from the floor. She sat up, resting her back on the wall.
She slowly lifted her dress, then stopped when her long legs were exposed. Using the sharp and pointy side of the hairpin, she began to poke her skin, twisting the needle in her skin… The pain that shot through her was raw.
But she didn't feel any pain; she continued to insert the hairpin into her skin, poking the flesh on her leg, smiling in satisfaction.
Blood began to trickle out, gliding down her legs.
"What happened to Tamina?"
She asked no one in particular, then began to stab her knees with the hairpin, cutting through her skin…the hairpin sinking into her flesh, hitting her bones.
"She was locked up...and...and they refused to give her baby back; they took him away too!
She shrilled and then suddenly went numb; the hairpin faltered from her grip.
Blood trickled down her legs, gliding on the floor in a straight line; soon a pool of blood gathered beside Tamina's legs.
Everywhere in the room had lines and faint marks on the wall. The bedsheets on the bed were on the floor, shredded to pieces, the curtains had holes in them, and the floor had stains of dried blood.
The room was now overwhelmed with the smell of blood.
Tamina slowly rose to her feet. She staggered to where a big candle was lit up. The candle had been there for days; she would blow it out, but then someone would sneak into her room while she was asleep and turn it on.
The candle was on a candlestand. Tamina was suddenly fascinated by the candle; she drew nearer, her gray-colored eyes twitching with the urge to touch the flames.
She steadily lifted the candle from the wooden table and then placed it on the floor. Playfully she began to swipe her finger into the fire.
The flames of the candle tingled under her touch, but she felt nothing. As if to try her luck, she allowed her index finger to linger in the flames; it began to hurt… But she didn't flinch.
Her fingernails began to change color, turning brown, the finger red, and the skin began to sweat from the flames, as if it was going to begin to melt at any moment.
"Take it off!
She screamed and then began to tremble.
"It hurts; please take it off."
She cried in pain. Then, with sudden resolve. Slowly, she pressed her finger into the flame. It hissed against her skin, a faint searing sting, but she did not flinch—she welcomed the pain. She kept pressing, deeper, until the fire bent and guttered against her touch.
At last, her fingertip met the hot wax. The flame sputtered, then died with a faint curl of smoke, leaving her in darkness once more.
She lifted her finger, blistered and red, and stared at it blankly. A crooked smile spread across her lips.
She gazed at it surprised but recoiled backwards in fright.
"I will be a good girl; don't go, please." She began to plead.
"Come back, be my friend." She said, shifting forward, she took the candle in her hand; she wanted the flames of the candle to be ignited.
"Where did it go?...The fire." She asked, grumbling to herself.
Soon she began to hear the noise of footsteps approaching.
She froze. From her dark corner, she tilted her head, listening. Footsteps. Slow, cautious ones, echoing down the stone corridor toward the chamber.
Her breathing quickened, her eyes wide and unblinking in the gloom.
She slowly placed the candle steadily on the floor, then scuttled closer to the door, crouching low like a predator awaiting prey.
The footsteps stopped just outside. For a long, tense moment there was silence, broken only by the faint rattle of keys. She pressed her ear to the wood, her nails scratching at it, whispering to herself,
"They come again… Maybe with my baby this time." She said, then giggled, and began to chew her nails.
Then, with a sudden metallic groan, the lock turned.
The heavy iron door creaked as it opened just a crack.
Two maids, pale with fear, stood outside, their hands trembling as they balanced the tray of food.
Tamina's hollow eyes flashed toward the sliver ray of sunlight, and the maids flinched. Quickly, they slid the tray across the floor, the tin plate scraping against the stone. Without daring to look fully inside, they pushed the door shut with a thud, securing the latch as though to keep a wild beast from escaping.
"No…no! Where are you going?
She shrilled, steadily rising to her feet.
"Where is he? Where is my baby?!
She screamed, hitting the door with her fist.
She continued to wail, banging the door, her knuckles turning red, but it was of no use; no one paid heed to her voice.
She gave up and then languidly crawled toward the food. She did not eat at once. Instead, she pushed the bread aside and dipped her fingers into the soup, hot liquid dripping between her nails. She stirred it absently, as though it were a bowl of paint, then dragged her hand across the cold stones.
With slow, deliberate strokes, she smeared the soup in crooked patterns—shapes that made sense only to her unraveling mind. She laughed softly, a brittle sound, and dipped her hand back into the soup, slapping it against the wall this time, leaving streaks like bloodied handprints.
After smearing more streaks of soup on the wall, she paused. Her hollow stomach growled, the sound echoing in the chamber. Slowly, she turned back to the tray. The bread lay waiting, its crust hard but real.
She snatched it up with both hands and tore into it, biting ferociously, crumbs spilling down her chin. She did not chew like a queen but like a famished beast, gulping, tearing, and grunting under her breath. The soup she scooped with her fingers, slurping greedily, running down her wrists.
Suddenly something caught her attention.
Her teeth froze mid-bite, the bread still pressed against her lips. Something pricked at her senses—an unease that crawled along her skin. Slowly, she lifted her head, her gaze drifting across the mess of crumbs and smeared soup that stained the floor.
Then she saw it.
In the far corner, on the floor, a candle burned. Its weak flame swayed gently, casting shadows that danced along the damp walls.
But she remembered snuffing it out moments ago.
Her eyes widened, pupils dilating.
"No…" she whispered, voice trembling.
She crawled toward it, each movement hesitant, as though the flame might leap at her. The closer she came, the more it seemed to flicker with life, bending as if acknowledging her.
She finally sat in front of the table, gazing at the flames; then just something flashed.
She blinked her eyes… once, twice.
Yes! She had seen something… No, someone in the flames.
She is crazy, not blind.
Tamina was so fascinated by the fire she didn't take notice of something.
The finger she had pressed into the fire—raw and red only moments ago—was now smooth. The flesh bore no burn, not even the faintest redness. It was as though the flame had never touched her.
Her finger was completely healed.