crevices between the sharp points. Not only does it look intimidating as hell, but it also makes all the sound in the room muffled, as if whoever built it wanted to make sure your own sobs suffocated in the air, not allowed to drift out.
That’s exactly what I feel like—like the sadness is going to smother me.
What would Jerif do if he knew that he would die just for me to end up here?
It makes me angry on his behalf. He wanted me to get away, not to be stuck in this place. I need to get out. But my one and only weapon is gone. The scythe dropped right out of my hands, and I didn’t get to see what happened to it before I was dragged into this cell.
Exhaustion tugs at my eyes, making my lids feel heavy. I try to fight it because it terrifies me to sleep in this place and to be caught unaware. So I force myself to get up and pace again, but the soreness in my body screams at me to sit back down.
I grip the bars, yelling once more, shouting words that get swallowed up in the darkness. Defeated and utterly drained, I lie down on the bed again, and then I just cry. My tears go hot and cold. My body sweats and shivers. My mind whirls until my overflowing emotions make me go numb instead.
A long time passes by the time my heavy lids take over, shutting my burning eyes against my will. Sweeping the last of my tears away, my eyes force me into sleep, like I’ve been strong-armed in a wrestling contest and the only thing I can do is tap out.
I dream about them dying over and over again.
I wake up because of a sound, but my groggy body doesn’t pinpoint it right away. I groan at the hard metal bed that I’m lying on and rub my hands down my face. I was really hoping that when I opened my eyes, the spiked walls and overall doom of my circumstances would have been gone, nothing but a nightmare.
One look over my shoulder sends all hope away. Those grotesque, horrible multihued-purple wings are still attached to my back, some of the feathers nearly matching the shade of my hair.
I always thought it was weird that I’ve been dyeing my hair purple since I was sixteen. I just...had to. I’ve always been drawn to it. My mom didn’t even mind it; she said it suited me. I can’t help but wonder if that’s because she knew I had wings to go right along with it. It’s like every time I got a purple box of dye, I was fulfilling some omen or giving fate a hand up. Maybe this is why I only have to dye my hair every six months. It takes to the color like it’s claiming it as its own.
Did my parents know that if these blocks on me were removed, this is what I would really look like? Was I born with violet purple hair and wings? Is that why they put some sort of demon power block on me, because there was no way for me to blend otherwise?
I dismiss the barrage of frustrating questions. I shouldn’t keep looking for answers when I know I’ll probably never find them. Instead, I search my body for any other hints of change. I don’t feel any horns or tails. I still have two eyes and normal teeth, and my skin is what it’s always been. I don’t have a forked tongue like Crux, or blue skin like Iceman, or moving tattoo shadows like Echo. I don’t have fiery hair like Jerif. Aside from the wings and what I now suspect is the real color of my hair, I’m still me.
Sitting up, I look around, testing out my body as I stretch and crick my neck, trying to work out the soreness from the bed and figure out what the noise was that woke me up. When my eyes scan over to the bars of my cell, I jump so hard that I ram my wings back against the spiked wall, instantly piercing one.
With a pained yelp, I stand up, nearly falling face-forward as I overcompensate for the weight of the wings at my back. I’ve been awake for about forty seconds, and life already sucks.
With a hand over my racing heart, I stare at Lanky who’s just standing in the shadows, watching me like