Today I’m excited to be sharing an excerpt from my short erotic horror story “My Parents Buried Me in a Red Dress” as part of the Halloween Blog Hop! Be sure to enter the giveaway at the bottom of this post.
The next thing I remember is my funeral. I am not sure how I got there, but I followed the wailing of my mother. The funeral was held for many days after my death; throughout, my mother cried. As I walked among the crowd who had gathered at my family home, I was amazed by how many people had come to honour me. They spoke of how kind I was, how I was always obedient to my parents, how I watched over my brothers like a loyal mother hen. Even though I did not know many of these people, they knew who I was and my reputation. They brought their own daughters with them to show them the girl they should emulate, even unto death.
I also heard what happened to my body and my killer in hushed whispers. Being a butcher, he had a professional pride in the way he dismembered my body. He severed my arms and legs from my torso and sent each piece to a member of my extended family. My head, so carefully removed from my neck where he had drained me of my blood like so many pigs, was sent to my parents. Then, the butcher fled. My father had dispatched every horse and rider at his disposal to find the butcher and bring him to justice, but to no avail. My village was on the coast, so many feared he had stowed away on a ship and was safely in another country by now.
I heard all these things as I passed through the crowd and made my way to the side of my mother. She was lying over the remains of my body, unwilling to leave me for even a moment. Though I had longed for her to show me such affection in life, I was moved to tears by her outpouring of emotion for me in death. My father and brothers stood nearby. Much more quietly than my mother, they also shed tears. My poor family! How my heart ached over the grief my death had caused them. Any wrongs they had done me in my short life, I forgave. Even though they could not see me, I kowtowed before them and begged for forgiveness for any pains that I had caused them.
Finally, I looked at my body. My family had found the best possible caretaker. The mortician had sewn it back together, painted my face, and brushed my hair. I looked as beautiful in death as I had in life. Most women who died were dressed in white, the colour of death, but my family had chosen to dress me in a beautiful, red, silk gown. I looked down and saw that I, too, was wearing the same red gown. My family was in mourning, but they were also full of rage. They would not let me leave this world dressed as though I had died quietly and peacefully. I was violently ripped from the world. My dress symbolized anger, blood, and revenge. Even in death, my family needed me. They could not bring my killer to justice; they could not have peace.
I vowed to become a demon, a nvgui. I would avenge my own death. But I did not yet know how.
Be sure to check out all the blogs on the hop!