(Elizabeth Olsen × Reader)
What measures would you take to ensure the truth remains hidden?
Out of the blue you receive an unusual envelope in the mail.
The contents of the letter reveal intimate details about a secret you thought were buried deep i...
Preparing to open the box, I freeze, staring at the brown paper. The corners folded perfectly as though practiced a thousand times before.
Planting myself in front of the package, I rip it apart like a child on Christmas morning. Opening the folds, I feel a sense of fear squeezing the air from my lungs and it's like all of my anxieties come tumbling back.
I reach inside and pull out a jacket. The zipper's been broken and the sleeves are littered with cigarette burns but what stands out the most is the blood which stains the faded fabric.
I throw down the jacket and fall back in my chair, with an aggressive sigh. A stream of hot tears cascade down my cheeks, and hoping that they will stop, I squeeze my eyelids shut.
Why is this happening? Why now? After all these years. Why is this happening now?
It took some time for the choppy breathing and watery eyes to subside, but when the world didn't appear to be drowning in my pain, I reach for the letter.
Her penmanship does not deliver the same joy from before. I tear open the envelope and in that font from the first letter, I read:
She stepped down from the crate and sat on the bed, knees tucked under her chin. They'd brought her here after court, so it might be six by now. Only one hour passed. Or maybe not even that.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Upon flipping the page, I see that chapter 42 has come to an end. I slide in the old receipt I've been using as a bookmark and clap the book shut.
In the library, a feeling of peaceful quiet enveloped me like a blanket of comfort, providing a refuge from the harsh world outside. I rest the book in my lap as I lean back into a shelf stacked with hundreds of Greek novels.
Sitting on the floor with legs stretching out to the corresponding shelf, I lean my head back, closing my eyes. There aren't many places on campus that can supply such silence.
Cutting through the perfect atmosphere are two raised voices. One is more familiar than the other, however, I recognize them both.
As I tilt my head to the side I see Prof. Allen walk past saying something about grades and as he disappears from sight I see Julian Creed appear.
I hear the older man finish the disagreement with, "Mr. Creed, your grade is final, if you have a problem with that, I'd advise you to study harder for the next test." Even with the carpeted floors the sound of shoes stepping away can be heard.
