telling how she might react, what she might do as a result.
A thought that, quite honestly, frightens me.
But I have to do so regardless.
She has the right to know.
♫ Moonlight Sonata No.14 -
Ludwig van Beethoven ♫
It’s getting worse.
Falling apart right before my very eyes.
And I’m useless to stop it.
I woke up to the tips of my wings consumed by darkness. From the looks of it, won’t be much longer till it overcomes at least half of them, either. I’d say another week and they’ll be engulfed completely. There’s an ache, too, one that wasn’t there before, almost like an inflamed throb coming forth from where my wings once expelled and retracted. It’s not unbearable, but they’re definitely tender, which has made it harder to sleep.
As if that wasn’t hard enough already.
My markings have continued their mutation as well. The balls of my shoulders hold not even a glimmer of their previous golden luminescence. They’re black, permanently, and it’s creeping downward along the rest of my upper arms. I keep wondering if it’ll stop at the edges of the last swirls, or if it’ll develop a mind of its own and continue the same pattern down the rest of my arms.
Wouldn’t surprise me.
Only time will tell, I suppose.
What’s worse still? I fear my hair is next. Just yesterday anyone would’ve classified me as a blonde. But today? My tresses, while still long, are white, all the more dull and untextured than before. Not silvered like that sweet, old woman, Violet, or that man I remember from my first night here. No, they’re a pale white, and right in the center, where I’ve always had a natural part, is now a dark line—as though my roots are suddenly coming in the same ominous shade that’s distorting my body.
What kind of monster will I resemble when I finally take my last breath?
I try not to think about it, to dwell on it because, if I’m being honest on any level, I’m terrified out of my mind. It’s hard enough to remember what it was like to die the first time, to jump from that cliff and realize there was no going back.
No saving me.
Now I have to do it again, and in an entirely different fashion. One where I don’t know what to expect.
I guess no one ever truly knows how they’re going to go, right?
The point is, I already died. Was supposed to be dead; a cold, lifeless body washed out to the sea. Callan changed that when he found me, and while it warms my mangled heart to know at least one person cared enough about me to save me from myself, the balance of life cannot be disrupted.
There is no life after death, or at least, there’s not supposed to be.
You die, restore that energy to its rightful place within the earth, and if you’re lucky enough, you’re born again into a new version of yourself. Into a new life.
I almost laugh aloud, hearing Callan’s reasoning in my head.
This is your rebirth, he’d say, the clean slate you were longing for.
Perhaps in some twisted, alternate universe, he’s right. This, however, is not that universe.
It’s also not the universe where I can allow him to put his hands on me again.
As exhilarating and mind blowing as the entire scenario was; to be kissed like that, held like that, to be wanted so fiercely… God, I’d never felt anything like it in my life. Peter never kissed me that way, even in his most passionate moments. He never touched me like that, never possessed me so wholly to the point I felt so disconnected from reality.
It might’ve seemed that way at the time, but I didn’t know any better.
I didn’t think something of this magnitude actually existed.
All the more reason why I can’t let it happen again. I promised myself last night that I’d stay away from him, that I wouldn’t be alone with him. And I have to stick by that—in the same way I’ve promised myself I need to stick to my decision.
No matter what.
Temptations may run strong, but I’m not weak. I’ll do what needs to be done.
Wouldn’t be fair to either one of us at this point, really. Hook admitted he’s been waiting for what seems like forever and a day to get me beneath him—or beneath me, I should say. An admission I still haven’t been able to fully process.
Why allow him to take comfort in my presence; to grow accustomed to having me at his side,