Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
The dark classroom hugs me like a desperate gulp of air. I didn’t want to stay in my room, afraid he’d seek me out again. I can’t face Ambrose right now. I’m still so raw and fragile that I feel like one wrong word, and I’ll splinter.
The empty Apothecary class is my current refuge. The faint smell of herbs and potions floats through the air. There are numerous bookshelves stacked with old tomes that are filled with recipes. Some for healing, others for mayhem.
Depends on your mood, I guess.
A few of the walls have smoke stains from the centuries of alchemy performed in this room. There are a few cauldrons across from me, filled with a foul-smelling substance. Every so often, a bubble will form and pop within the concoction, breaking the silence that’s keeping me company.
I trace my finger over the carving that’s etched deep into the old table I’m sitting at.
Sleep has eluded me for the past few weeks, and I’ve been in a constant lull of mediocracy.
I’m passing classes, but just barely. I haven’t died in the practice drills with Corinne yet, but I’ve also made very little improvement.
I’ve had absolutely nothing in the manifestation department occur. I’m just surviving at this point.
Barely.
And most definitely not thriving.
Ambrose has tried to corner me any chance he gets, but by sheer willpower, I keep evading him.
Finnley and Mallory are concerned, but they give me the space I so desperately need.
Kingston has been oddly absent during most of our shared classes and from my combat training sessions.
I’ve been sitting in Shadowcraft, watching others hone their skills and being tossed around like a rag doll in battle defense tactics by Corinne.
Or whoever she chooses to accompany her during the training.
It's been an absolute grand time, let me tell you.
I watch two drops of condensation race down the opaque window.
The one I’ve been secretly cheering for is in the lead.
They look like two teardrops falling in tandem, one slightly more broken and eager to reach its destination.
It breaks itself onto the window ledge, its sad song finished in such an anticlimactic way.
Twisting my unruly hair into a messy bun, I grab a quill out of my bag and secure it in place.
I rest uneasy eyes on the book in front of me.
The silver cover shimmers in the glow of the candle that’s sitting atop the table.
I guess I’m a masochist because I flip the cover open and flatten out the blank page.
I reach behind me and stab the tip of my finger with the quill wrapped up in my hair.
I don’t even feel the sting. As if it’s a perfectly normal thing to do, I squeeze drops of blood onto the pages and wait.
The response is almost immediate. Red ink splotches beneath my watchful gaze.
Hello, Weaver.
I arch a delicate red brow. Hmph. Well, that’s new. “Tired of calling me Liminal?” I ask blandly.
Delicate curves splash across the page.
A thread has more than one name.
I’m not sure I care to have more than one. Life is already complicated enough.
“Right now, I just need a friend, Silver. Not a puzzle to be worked out.” I close my eyes and squeeze the sides of the book. “I’m not positive, but I think I might be at rock bottom.”
I reluctantly peel my eyes back open to read the response. The letters sink into the pages before being replaced with new words.
Rock bottom is never really the bottom. They’ll just bring a shovel.
I raise one corner of my mouth in a half-smile. Apparently, Silver has a sense of humor. Who knew. “Helpful as always,” I mutter, my voice lacking any real anger.
The page flips on its own accord.
Sometimes, things done with the best of intentions cut the deepest. Only those who care deeply enough have the ability to break the skin.
There’s a pause, but the page hums beneath my fingertips like it’s not quite through. Slowly, it finishes its thought.
They also have the ability to decimate us beyond rationality.
“Isn’t that the truth?” I rub the page between my fingers. “Silver, what’s my place in all of this? What’s the endgame for me? Do I belong here? Is leaving even an option at this point?”
The page flips again but remains empty, as if it’s weighing its words carefully. Finally, when I’m not sure I can’t wait much longer, the letters spiral across the parchment.
Don your mask with reverence. Covertness is key. The ending is yours, what kind shall it be?
I toss my head back and stare at the ceiling.
Without thinking, I lean forward, close the book, and toss it in my bag. I’ve had just about all I can handle from everyone at this point, including the odd little book.
Every once in a while, footfall passes by the door, a student on their way to or from class.
I’m surrounded by more people than I’ve ever been surrounded by in my entire life, yet I feel more alone than ever.
There are hundreds of students here, not to mention the professors, medical staff, dining personnel, and even the voicebounds forced to serve their sentence within these walls. Yet I am unequivocally alone.
Funny, how I used to think that was such a luxury.
I craved time carved out by myself, thrived on it in fact. Yet here I am, sitting in this darkened classroom, basking in the realization that it’s lonely. Truly isolating to not have a singular person in your corner that you can trust to catch you.
A trust fall.
Yeah, I don’t have one of those.
Not anymore. Potentially never had one in the first place.
And to be honest, I’m not sure I’ll ever open myself up to having one again.
To be this bitter at such a young age is not only unhealthy but heartbreaking.
I never want to feel that hollow feeling again that I felt that day in the hall.
To feel like my insides are being dug out with a dull spoon while I desperately try to stay conscious, to wrap my hands around my still beating heart and protect it the best I can.
To only realize that while I was so busy trying to protect it, it was turning to ash in my palms.
I’d cry right now if I had any tears left. However, my pillow has absorbed every single one that I had bottled up over the years. I gave them all away. I have no more left to give.
Trust is an easy thing to give someone, especially when you love them.
But once broken, it’s never fully put together again.
Even if I do trust someone in the future, the edges will be cracked and pieces missing.
It will never have that same smooth finish it had at the beginning.
Broken people are never fully repaired. We just exist because we have no other choice.
And that’s exactly what Ambrose did. He broke me.
He reached so far inside and twisted. Cruelly.
He knew how important finding my father was to me, how daunting it was to think it might never happen.
I trailed after Ambrose my entire life like a lost pup, scooping up whatever crumbs he dropped along the way.
I thrived on his attention, blossomed under his friendship, and relied on him for my happiness.
That was my first mistake. Relying on someone to be happy.
The second was trusting that he would never use that undisputed loyalty against me. And yet, here we are. A nineteen-year-old girl hiding in the shadows of an empty classroom, wondering if the pain will ever stop.
I loved him. And right now, I am grieving that loss.
It doesn’t mean I instantly don’t love him anymore, but I know it will never be as intense as it was before. Nothing will ever be the same, and the notion of that is giving full-blown grief.
A tear slips down, falling onto my lip, the salty taste a direct reflection of the state of my heart.
Apparently, I do have a few tears left after all.
Nineteen years of lies. I wonder if any of it was real or just fulfilling an oath to my mother.
I’ve been shaped and molded to be exactly who she thinks I should be.
I laugh bitterly.
I don’t even know who I truly am.
I’m so lost and have no sense of direction.
I lay my wet cheek onto the smooth wooden table and close my eyes. I have a while before I need to be somewhere.
The door creaks on its hinges behind me as it slowly opens.
Grinding my teeth, I don’t even open my eyes.
I don’t have enough fucking strength to do this right now.
It was only a matter of time before he found me.
I just thought I had more of it. I’m sure he’s going to try to reason with me, to assure me that everything he did and lied about was for my own good.
It’s ironic how everyone thinks they know what’s best for you, but they are the ones who end up driving you to the brink.
“Please,” I mutter, digging my nails into the table, “just go away.”
I can hear him walking closer.
It takes me a second, but I realize the footsteps aren’t as heavy as Ambrose’s.
I raise my head and open my eyes at the same time, right before a rag is pressed firmly over my mouth from behind.
I jerk forward, trying to pull out of the firm grip.
The rag muffles my screams as I blindly reach over my head.
I sink my nails into the attacker’s hand, but I can feel the ferocity of my escape fading.
Quickly.
The classroom is starting to blur, and my movements become jerkier. Slower. Blinking rapidly, I try to clear the spots from my vision.
I can’t lose consciousness.
Focus! Focus! FOCU…
The moment I feel my grasp loosen and fall completely, I know I’m in deep shit. Every breath that slips through my lips into the cloth is now erratic and shallow. With one last effort, I twitch my fingers and attempt to muffle out a curse before my body falls limp and the room darkens completely.