“There’s no point. They’re already dead.”
Stalking forward, I stop by the gate of the first cell and get to work on the lock, swallowing the lump in my throat, fingers itching to reach behind my arm andpinch.
I don’t deserve tears.
I don’t deserveanything.
I failed.
I can’t right the wrongs of my past, but I can right something else, and in doing so, I can fix this fucking mess.
Rhordyn stripped my mask, shattered my self-perception, forced me to look through the blackened cracks of my beautiful, broken self and face the monster I am inside.
It’s only fair I repay the favor.
Ionce sat at a vanity while Rhordyn disassembled my self-perception. Perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to this one while I ruminate on the flaming pit of anger whipping at my insides, trying to tone it down to a dull simmer.
An impossible task.
There’s ire in my eyes. Fire in my veins. Hurt in my heart.
A hot meal comes, chills, goes. Someone enters to fluff my pillows and pull down the covers on the bed I don’t shift into. I’m offered tea—I don’t answer.
Too scared of what will spew forth from my flower-pressed lips should I open them.
They leave it anyway, scurrying off, pinching the air with the sharp tang of fear. I watch the whorl of steam disappear, and the remaining light in my room drains, dropping me into a black pall.
Still, I stare at the mirror I can no longer see, hand cast palm-up upon the vanity, hairbrush hung loosely in my limp fingers. The other is curled around the pot cradled in my lap—the one Enry gave me, stuffed with soil that was fed my blood and tears that has now sprouted a bouquet of wildflowers that boast every color of the rainbow. Flowers that somehow managed to germinate, sprout, thenbloomin just two days.
The seconds tick by, a slow, steady drip …
Tick … Tick … Tick …
The gulls make their morning calls, and a rosy shaft of sun cuts through my room and caresses my sallow skin.
I release a shaken breath, letting my gaze trace over the darkened dents below my eyes … down to my necklace …
I would have lied to you forever if I thought I could get away with it.
My fist tightens around the hairbrush, hand whipping back and hurling it at the mirror, the collision akin to lightning smacking down from a black-smudged sky. Glass shatters—some bits popping off the surface and flying back at me while the rest remain stuck to the stone.
I look into my fragmented reflection that finally mirrors how I feel inside.
Gaze dropping, I pluck a shard from the scattering and flip it in my palm, studying its many sharp angles …
He taught me to bleed so beautifully.
I wonder … will he bleed for me?
* * *
The crisp morning air bites into my lungs as I make for the city beneath a grapefruit sky, the shard of glass loosely caught in the clutch of my hand. A layer of fog swirls off the cobblestones, still wet from the deluge that raged through the night. The streets are empty apart from a smattering of women swishing the contents of chamber pots down drains and a few men sitting on doorsteps, puffing on pipes or sipping from steaming mugs.
I pass beneath the spindly reach of the mail tree—catching curious peeps from some of the sprites hanging upside down from gnarled twigs—then head into the thin alleyway Gael led me through what feels like a lifetime ago …
I tighten my grip on the shard, relishing its bite. The sharp edges slice into the flesh of my palm, and a slippery warmth wets my skin, dripping in rhythm with my steps.
I toss the shard in a dumpster, painting the side with a splash of red, and continue.
