The Criswell's Curse

When we returned to the Wharton’s estate, I locked myself in the chambers, sinking into the bed for the rest of the day. Night had now arrived yet my soul couldn’t bring itself to rest, my mind to ease, my body to sleep.

As the moonlight shun down upon the room, sneaking in from the large windows, a strong sense of guilt embraced me. I glanced at Nero, who rested soundly at the end of the bed. Slowly dragging my body to the desk, before sitting on the chair across it, my fingers began creating imaginary figures in the wood, pitifully attempting to restrain the demons lurking within.

“I...” My stomach twirled, eating itself up. I wanted to throw up again.

Terrel’s grinning face kept appearing in my mind, followed by the irking sensation of his touch. Memories of our past, of his actions, of our relationship passed by in a flash. My mind ached as tears rolled down my cheeks.

As my vision smeared, the wooden desk became wet and my voice struggled to come out. With hands covering my mouth, I attempted to prevent the loud sobbing sounds from leaving. But it was no use. My soul was far too hurt, far too used.

“Disgusting...” I mumbled the words he would so often whisper into my ear as if it was a compliment, a seduction technique used by true manipulators.

Unconsciously, my tears momentarily stopped flowing. My fingers found their way into my arms. And they carved its nails into them, causing a small river of blood to pour out, staining the beautiful carpet. A sudden need for cleansing had ensued.

I needed to punish myself for my own mistakes, for such incompetence.

Take it off... this feeling... I’m so... Depressive thoughts ran through as my fingers attempted to skin myself alive. Nostalgia forced me to remember every single night, every single memory he had so kindly left me with.

“You must be pretty on the outside, even if you’re filthy on the inside.” I muttered his words repeatedly, forcing my soul to sink them in, to deepen their roots inside me. “Disgusting. Filthy. Whore.”

Getting up, my body walked around in circles, teeth now chewing the tip of the fingers strongly, stealing away any meat they could. Tears gradually threatened to escape their home again. But then I stopped.

The mirror at the end of the space stared back, my reflection so perfect, mocking me. It was easy to see, the contrast between the pearly white nightgown and the putrid hair, like charcoal from the mines, only good for a miner’s son. At that moment, despair struck, causing my strength to fall alongside my body.

“Whore!” I yelled, grabbing the closest thing in hand which happened to be a book hidden beneath the bed frame, throwing it onto the mirror. The glass broke down, shattering the beautifully crafted item into small shards who had now gained terrain on the floor. “You filthy whore…”

The glass pierced my knees as they sunk into it, yet my reflection still popped in one of the bigger chunks. Unconsciously, my hands grabbed it, feeling the sharpness and coldness of its empathy pierce my skin, ripping apart my gown, yet such movement was so… painless.

It was my fault. It had always been my fault.

If I didn’t look like this, if I didn’t have this hair, would things change? Would Terrel despise me? Or would he want me even more?

“Ah...!” As my fingers pressed the glass onto my wrist, an intense current of blood poured out, staining everything around me.

I wouldn’t die. I never did.

God only allowed me to face the not so merciful death at my 18th birthday, so, did it truly matter if my body got a handful of scars? Maybe that way Terrel would leave me alone, would disappear from my life, from my past, from my body.

My trembling hands dropped the glass. The cut was deep, but useless. It wouldn’t give me the result I wanted; it wouldn’t give me the peace I yearned for.

Enraged, my body rose, and my hands grabbed anything at their disposal, throwing everything from the desk onto the floor, from the cabinets to the window that also crumbled with the strong impact. Shattered vases, pure black ink, broken quills, tainted books, ripped dresses. All of them rested on the floor.

The pain from stepping on the glass was sharp, and yet it seemed merciful compared to everything else destiny had put me through; compared to the pain it forced me to feel inside, every single goddamn night.

I wanted to yell.

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to die.

But it was useless, as my life was never mine to take. Fate had locked its webs around me, around my past, my present, my future, and there was nothing I could do to change that.

As feelings from self-loathing quickly turned into rage, my body stumbled back and forth, struggling to remain still, to retain the overpouring blood within. Everything was quiet, so quiet yet the world slowly turned, as if in a daze. One could even say it was peaceful, but was it truly? Or was peace a mere illusion from Men who ache for death?

“Why me...?” I mumbled. “Why me...?”

I rose my arm, covering my face, hiding myself from the moonlight. Tears rolled down, crimson intensely dripped. It was painful, so painful. Foolishly, my soul thought it had gotten used to them, used to him. How could my mind actually think that no matter what he did, my soul wouldn’t hurt, wouldn’t scar, wouldn’t remember?

“That’s enough.” I heard a voice, calm, peaceful and somehow, my eyelids became heavy, forcing my body to fall into someone’s warm embrace. It was comfortable, like a fluffy pillow, like a Frosting scarf. Dizziness controlled me and, before being able to see who this mysterious intruder was, my soul fell into a deep slumber.