The History of Dora January, Part Four:

Death
Thirsty. Too hot.
Dora opened her eyes, hissed as the firelight scorched her vision. She covered her eyes with one hand and kept her gaze averted from the dancing flames, and rolled to warm her other side.
"You don't fear the fire?"
"Why should I?"
"It can harm you."
"If I'm foolish enough to touch it, certainly. May I--May I have some water?"
"You are brave, my Adora." The shadows birthed Ekhart's face and shoulders. "I underestimate you. How long did you have that lover before I learned of it?"
Dora got to her feet. "I had him years before I had you coming around. Remember your promise."
"I remember."
"May I have some water, now? I don't feel well. I think I need--"
"Something to eat," Ekhard said. "Wait here."
A moment passed, and then Tante Amelie stumbled into the room.
She was bleeding.
* * *
Dora fought and screamed, understanding at last. She would not. Would not. She'd rather die or starve. She tried to beat her way out of the room, but the lathe and plaster was too strong, and she was too weak. Too hungry.
Then everything went black, and when she opened her eyes, Tante Amelie was gone--
Replaced by Tante Jeanette.
The hunger still tore at her, but she'd won. She'd left Amelie alive, and now Jeanette--she apologized, warned her that it would be frightening, but that she would never harm her, and fought temptation until the blackness came again, and Tante Jeanette was gone and Tante Odile was in her place.
Tante Odile cried. Dora tried to soothe her with soft words, to tell her that it was all right, it was a test, and she was winning, she was too strong to be beaten. When she'd move, even lean out of the furthest corner from Tante Odile, her aunt would scream, scream until her vocal cords buzzed. She beat her head against the door, and didn't seem to notice the pain--
--or the blood--
"Stop it, Odile. You're hurting yourself."
Odile screamed through her torn throat and thumped.
"Stop it. I said STOP IT!"
The blackness came.
* * *
"Dora."
"Jean-Paul?"
Dora opened her eyes. Jean-Paul hovered over her, blood smearing his throat. Dora shied away, shrank into the corner.
"Get back."
"Dora, you look...sick. Are you all right?"
"No, I'm not. Stay back, Jean-Paul. Stay far. You're the last test. But I'll beat him, I will."
"Test? Dora, we've got to get out of here. You have to get to the hospital. There's blood--"
"--no blood."
"Dora there's blood on your dress. There's a lot."
"From when he killed me. Stay back, Jean-Paul. Make the blood stop."
"It's just a scratch. But you're covered in it. Did he hurt you?"
"He killed me. Stay back."
"Dora--" Jean-Paul got up, and moved toward her.
"Noo. Go away. Stay away from me."
"You're not dead," Jean-Paul said, and took her in his arms. "See?"
Warm. Warm and soft and--
"You're chilled."
--Alive--
"Let me go. Stay away from me," Dora whispered. The blood taste on her tongue. Smell it, like a barbeque to a hungry man. So rich, so--
"It will be all right, Dora. I love--"
The blackness came.
* * *
And in the blackness, crimson. And a whisper:
Now you are mine, Adora. Mine...
* * *
No more hunger. No more weakness. Strong. She was strong.
Jean Paul lay beside her, staring.
Dora screamed. Screamed until she felt the hands on her shoulder, the desperate, tender caresses that didn't quite touch, and I'm here, I'm here whispered in her ear until she listened.
"Jean-Paul?"
Ekhart opened the door.
"You are washed clean of all your bindings but mine. Now you are mine, my jewel, my Adora. Now you will see for me."
Dora kept her eyes on Ekhart, while Jean-Paul stroked her back.
I'll never leave you, Dora. Ever.


The end is nigh! The History of Dora January, Conclusion