how some people open their eyes and simply cannot see. Requiring contact lenses or glasses just to notice your surroundings is a form of cruel and unusual punishment.
Holland groans, mumbling under his breath. He twists in his seat and scribbles something on the notepad beside him. He presses too hard, and the pencil tip snaps. He curses and throws his writing utensil on the floor. It smacks against the hardwood, bouncing several times before it slides to a stop at the other side of the room. It seems my situation is taking a toll on everyone.
Holland peers at me, his brown eyes wide, as if he is embarrassed I witnessed his breakdown. I smile, hoping it seems genuine and speaks volumes to our situation. I want to pull him into a hug and tell him it is okay. We all have these moments. If only he knew how emotionally unstable I am right now, he would not feel so awkward. He would laugh it off, pick up his broken pencil, and start over. I envy him in this moment. My situation is not as easily remedied.
Holland’s lids are heavy. Dark circles under his eyes are overemphasized by his pale skin. He apologizes for his outburst and runs a hand through his already-sloppy hair. His fingers get tangled in the mess, so he leaves it in a heap atop his head and drops his arm to his side. He thumbs the edge of the sofa awkwardly, peering up to meet my gaze.
I smile at him, conveying with my eyes that it is okay. I wish he did not take this so seriously. Sure, I want to find a way to sever this link as much as he does, but I hate that Holland is sacrificing his own health to save me.
Everyone is surrendering their lives and their time to this cause—except for me. I am deemed too weak to assist. So I just sit here with my books and my doubt, sinking further into the quicksand, the barren abyss my world has become. As they walk around me, frantically trying to find a magical situation to break a curse gone wrong, no one even notices that I am disappearing.
Soon, I fear I will be rooted so deeply, with the sand all around, I will not be able to breathe. I worry no one will see, no one will notice. I will just be…gone. And they will still be searching for a cure.
I continue to smile at Holland, and he returns the gesture, laughing off his tantrum all while these thoughts rush through my mind. My mouth mute, my tongue a useless husk, Holland never notices.
And I sink a little deeper.
Breaking my gaze, Holland snaps the book shut, and a plume of dust erupts in the air. He does not seem to notice that either. He tosses the tome on the open seat beside him and walks across the room to pick up the pencil. After wiping it off, he returns to the couch, never meeting my gaze.
He rarely looks at me now. Only when he needs certain information will he give me his full attention. I think he fears he will not discover a cure, a way to cut the link once and for all, and he does not want me to see that realization in his eyes. So he never meets mine anymore.
Ever since I returned home, the vampires have acted different. They worry. I catch them staring when they think I do not notice, and I try not to let it bother me. But it does. They all look at me the same way—like I am a victim.
And I guess I am now. This is a role I have never played, and to be honest, I hate it. I hate that I am no longer comfortable in my own skin. I hate that I must rely on everyone else just to survive the night. I cannot leave the manor, because danger lurks around every corner in Darkhaven, from covens of witches who hate me enough to damn themselves to rogue vampires intent on annihilating the entire population. Even tripping over my own feet can end in disaster.
I sigh and scan the book I am reading. The words begin to blur together, the ink seeping from the pages and dripping into a pool in my lap. I look away, once again setting my sights on the scene before me rather than the pages that might save me. My mind is