Notes: I make no guarantees that this will ever be finished. However, each 'chapter' has an ending that can act as 'the' ending so you needn't fear a cliffhanger in the traditional sense. Most of these were written at work, or in the middle of the night, so please bear with me.

As always, dedicated to the lovely lady in my life.

I own nothing that you recognise.

-

Masochism: Gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation; inflicted or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one's own actions or the actions of others.
Kismet: Fate, destiny.

The smell of old death was a comfort. The musky sweet smell of dust and desiccated flesh was not borne by the air like any normal scent. It lingered, just hanging in the air, seeping rather than wafting. It was heavier than the air, thicker close to the ground, cloying like mold and incense. Breathing it in made it a part of you, took you to the dark parts of the earth. It made you think of ancient cultures that revered the dead, ancestor worship with great-grandfather's skull on the altar.

She hadn't realised that the smell had become a comfort to her. After so long seeing her mother's tomb as a refuge, a place to be herself away from the often confining pink and lace of her bedroom, no wonder she would associate the smell of a tomb with comfort and peace.

Shilo needed a little comfort and peace. The marble coffin was not bolted in place, the lid relied only on its own weight and design to keep closed. Shilo set her hands against the lid and pushed, digging her toes in against the ground for leverage. Stone grated on stone, something in her back strained too hard and with the sound of nails on chalkboard the lid suddenly moved. It teetered for a moment on the very edge, rocking back and forth. Panting, holding on to the edge of the coffin to keep herself upright, Shilo could not stop it from falling. The marble crashed to the ground, cracking into three pieces and raising a cloud of dust from the floor. She would never get it back on, but that didn't matter so much now. There was nobody but her who visited anymore.

Dust slowly settled again. Carefully, waiting for the feeling of horror she was sure would come, Shilo peered down into the coffin.

The body was little more than bones covered in leathery skin, brittle curls arranged about its eyeless face, a crumbling lace dress covering it from neck to ankles. The papery remnants of long-dead roses lay on its sunken chest. The horror never came. She looked down at the corpse, feeling oddly detached. So this was what all the fuss was about, this woman. She was nothing more than a husk now.

"Hello, mother," Shilo whispered.