A Diary Found in a Crypt
Item · 1 gp · Weight 0
"Mirah is three days old What a happy day! I'm strong enough to hold a quill again, and I can now write of my joy. My prayers have been answered at last. I prayed desperately for many years to the goddesses of beauty and fertility, but they only responded with silence. Mother Lamashtu alone answered my prayers. Finally Mirah was born. It was difficult for me to bear her for nine months, but looking into her golden eyes, and seeing her pretty smile, I realize that all the hardships were worth it, and all the terrible rituals I wish I could forget. It's such a pity that my husband didn't live to see this day! Mirah is six months old The wet-nurse refused to feed her. She said the baby bit her breasts too hard, and sucked out the blood. What nonsense! True, my little girl was born with teeth, but that doesn't make her a blood-sucker! She's my angel, and I'm sure the humps on her back will soon develop into little wings. Mirah is five years old Mirah is five, but I still breastfeed her. She just won't let go of me. I'm the only one who can bear her little teeth. The servants leave us, one after another. They say they're frightened by rustling in the night, and that girls discover bite marks and bruises on their arms and legs in the morning. The housekeeper was the last to leave. She said she woke up at night to the sound of scratching up above the ceiling beam. She swears she looked up and saw Mirah, crawling across the ceiling. She showed me claw marks on the wood too. But of course I told her it was all ridiculous. My baby sleeps blissfully at night! But the silly woman packed her things nevertheless. Mirah is five and a half Mirah loves me so much, it's impossible to pull her away from my breast. It worries me that she doesn't want to eat vegetables. The cook complains that the little girl sneaks into the kitchen and snatches pieces of raw meat right out of her hands. My poor girl, no one wants to be friends with her. That's why she plays such strange games. Mirah is six The cook has vanished. She probably ran away in secret. Mirah slept all day. Her little tummy is so bloated, I'm afraid she might have contracted an illness from the uncooked meat. Mirah is six and one month I found what was left from the cook in the compost pile. I don't know what kind of animal chewed off her breasts and ripped chunks of meat from her stomach. A wolf perhaps? A rabid dog? Absentminded, I didn't hear Mirah come close. She laughed joyously, pointing her little finger at the rotting remains. A child's innocence! She didn't even realize what she was looking at. This may be the last thing I write in my life. My milk is not enough for Mirah any more. She wants more from me, and the wounds from her little teeth get deeper and deeper. Now I understand what happened to the cook. I am afraid, but I am her mother. I must be strong, and give my child everything I can. Mirah is near. I can hear her crystal laughter. Great Mother Lamashtu, I beg you, care for her when I'm gone. She has no one but us!"