Octavia
A knock at my door pulls me out of sleep.
I jolt upright, hair falling into my face, my skull throbbing with the aftermath of yesterday.
I barely managed two hours of sleep, by the time I reached the academy, morning was already creeping in.
Another knock follows, harder this time.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, swinging my legs off the mattress.
I’m wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt I stole from Adriano years ago, after a job ran longer than planned and my own clothes were beyond saving, soaked through with blood.
It had been a particularly aggressive night. The memory brings a smirk to my lips.
I drag myself to the door, pull it open, and blink at my sister. She’s already dressed, ready for the day, with two cups of coffee in her hands.
I don’t say a word. I simply turn and walk back into my bedroom. I collapse onto the bed again, face down.
Fuck, I need more sleep.
“We’re going to be late,” her voice filters through the fog in my head.
“I don’t have first period,” I mumble into the pillow.
“We all have first period. It’s the opening assembly,” she replies, and I can practically hear her eyes rolling.
“Ugh. Five more minutes,” I groan.
The next moment, she tugs the curtains open, and sunlight spills into the room..
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, already hauling myself off the bed and stumbling straight into the bathroom, my eyes still bleary.
I turn the shower cold, pull my hair into a messy bun, and step beneath the spray. The shock of it wakes me instantly.
I scrub myself with shower gel until my skin burns, until it’s red and oversensitive beneath my hands. Eventually, I have to force myself to stop and step out, my skin raw.
Even then, I don’t feel clean.
The truth is, it’s been years, and I still don’t. I should have accepted that by now.
I dry myself off with a towel, move to the sink, and splash cold water over my face in a last attempt to wake myself properly.
I brush my teeth, put a touch of cream on my skin, then swipe mascara through my lashes and add a hint of blush to stop myself looking entirely dead, because on two hours of sleep, I rather suspect I do.
Only then do I lift my eyes to the mirror.
It’s the first time in months, perhaps longer.
I’ve perfected the art of putting my face together without ever really looking at it.
Standing here now, I can barely tolerate the sight in front of me. The moment stretches, and the noise begins.
The demons come all at once, flooding my head, murmuring close to my ear.
I force myself to keep looking. I rarely do, and because of that, I no longer recognise the person staring back at me.
It feels like looking at a stranger.
I can hear my sister moving around in my room, and the self-loathing spikes suddenly, the voices growing louder.
I push them down, hard.
“Not today.”
Still, they press in.
Ruined.
Ruined.
Ruined.
Tainted.
Tainted.
Tainted.
“Shut up,” I whisper, my eyes still locked on my reflection.
“Octavia.” My sister’s voice reaches me through the door, and I try to calm myself down.
She cannot see me like this. She doesn’t know about this part of me, this darkness, and she never will.
What I do, what I carry, what I bury, will never be allowed to touch her.
I keep my eyes fixed on the mirror, even as my fingers itch toward the cabinet beneath the sink.
Ruined.
Tainted.
Ruined.
I close my eyes, knowing I’ve lost this fight, if I was ever truly fighting at all, and reach blindly until my fingers find what they’ve been searching for.
The familiar weight settles into my palm, and when the blade touches my skin, a breath of relief escapes me, followed by a tear I don’t bother to stop.