She blinked in and out. Dissolved, then returned again.
I felt her—the echo of her—standing on a shore.
A pale blue weathered cottage stood on stilts behind her while a stone fence bordered the property. A creaky gate swayed with every gust, her wild hair tossing in the wind. Amidst the chaos, her voice echoed like a silver bell, the moon ablaze with ominous light.
To my beloved black sea,
Early into the morning, I write until my wrist tires and a callus builds on my ring finger. The pages of my diary are beaten and bruised before they’re torn out, neglected words I should have said, inky swirls inside my head.
I like to believe that the more horrific confessions I write, the quicker my crazy will fade. But it usually only lasts for a short while. This is why they desire me but never love me. Because how could they?
There's a smile on my face, and they think I'm friendly, calm, and sweet, but it’s only because I'm imagining their deaths.
There's a light in my eyes, but it’s because of the thought of walking over their rotten bodies decaying on the floor. There are days I imagine myself gliding through Town Hall and seeing them at the monthly meeting. This is how far it has progressed. I'll step up the stairs, dragging a dead body from behind, leaving a trail of blood in my wake, and drop it next to the others. One is coughing up blood, but instead of helping him, I'll walk around the eight-foot table and help myself to the Order’s throne, stepping over limbs and hair and feet and fingers, ordering both covens to do whatever I please. Then, on my way out, a kick to a set of lungs while another lay there dead, leaving behind nothing but corpses.
There's more to me than this, I know, but there is no escape.
Trauma has a way of tying knots with our bones.
This is what happens when a woman has a mind she can’t use, a loyalty she's forced to refuse. This is what happens when a woman is oppressed, silenced, ridden of purpose. This is what happens, I want to scream. My rage has turned into crazy. My secret is so heavy, the things that would happen to me if I ever said it aloud. I hate them for what they did to her. I hate them for what they're doing to me. But I hate myself more for this thing inside me, feeding me these thoughts I can’t control.
I will tear this page out and give it to you.
My spite in the form of a love letter.
Surrender, my darling insanity.
Suffocate, my sweet emotions.
Pretend. Chin high. Be quiet.
Smile, my pretty lips.
Sink, my homicidal thoughts.
Until we meet again,
xx -
A
CHAPTER 21
ADORA
Beaver Moon
November 30, 2020
59 days until the Crimson Eclipse
62 days until the Cantini-Sullivan Wedding
“One,two, three...something’s coming for me.
Four, five, six...the night is playing tricks.
Seven, eight...I better stay awake.
