Previously:
Where am I?
I looked around and found that I was once again in my room. The mirror was in front of me, showing my disassembled self.
What was that? Arian? Blake? And Hazel? The poem?
"Miss. Winters?"
When suddenly, Margery's voice came from behind.
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I was looking at the mirror but my mind was occupied by something else to even take notice of Margery. What had just happened?
The mirror—Arian said hi—golden hands dragging me. A shudder passed through me when the image of him sitting under the tree flashed in my brain.
There was only one word to describe that moment. Magical. The person behind all the notes and lovely poems was magical. The way he blushed and his eyes star-stucked to Hazel was simply beautiful.
And, speaking of Hazel, who was she?
'scents of beauty
On their first meeting'
Meeting of Arian and Hazel? So, was she the one all his poems were for and not me? A sudden pang of hurt surged through my body. Why this hurts so much. But, I think that I get it. Hazel was perfect in every way I could not be and they both were a match made in heaven.
Even then, the thought of Arian and Hazel together wanted me to gulp down the entire bottle of vinegar.
Stop being jealous of a dead person you wiredo! Shut up.
Maybe it was just another strange dream?
Or maybe, your hallucinating powers have completed the graduation ceremony?
Yeah, that makes the most sense. Sigh.
"Miss. Winters? Are you alright?"
Margery's voice broke my chain of depressing thoughts. Leaving the mirror my eyes turned to her.
She was wearing her omnipresent black maid dress with patches of dirt at the hem of her dress, making the white frill appear pale yellow.
She was standing with a slight curve in her back, leaning against the partially closed window.
"Huh?" I said dumbfoundely, my mouth refusing to corporate in response to all the things stirring in my mind. I shook my head to focus in present. "Sorry, what did you say?"
A frown appeared on her forehead. With the furrowed eyebrows, she asked me, "You seem unwell, Miss. Winters. Should I call upon a doctor?"
The memory of my ten-years old self, wailing in the arms of a stranger—some people liked to call him doctor—was still vivid in my brain. He was about to give me an injection when the needle broke inside of me, and I was in hospital for three days, all while wishing to poke him in the eye. Needless to say, my trust in the people of medical sciences is kind of low.
"No! Not a doctor. Never a doctor," I shook my head vigorously at her suggestion and exclaimed.
But, soon I realised, how unnecessarily loud and absurd my tone was.
Thus, to justify myself, I futher added to my verbal diarrhoea, "I mean I am fine, better than ever and doctor is not needed. Like at all. Like zero percent."
Wow, such an elegant orator! Someone kill me please.
Silence filled up the air. I looked at Margery and found her staring at me with confusion and her eyes shining in—amusement? Am I seeing this correct?
