My Wee Mate

14 - Meet My Misdoings

Ailsa

     I sulk through the hallways, looking at my feet as I go. For some reason, I'm convinced that it will help distract me from the talk, the gossip. I was wrong.

     It follows me everywhere I go.

     Each pair of eyes feels like a dagger hellbent on reaching my heart with a piercing blow. I can feel them watching my every move. I have to be careful now. I have always had to be careful, but now more than ever.

     People point and whisper, others look away, some shoot me pitying glances. I hate all of it. It just reminds me of the glaring issue that I have, and they all know about it.

     My Father is officially looking for a husband to marry me to. It's so real that everyone seems to know about it. I try to continue on as if everything is normal, as if nothing has changed. A part of me hopes that I can feel better if I pretend that it's not happening.

     It's impossible to ignore when everyone is pointing it out.

     "I hear he's considering the MacNeil clan." Someone says on a whisper.

     "That would be a formidable alliance, to be sure."

     "But the kid is a wee brat!" Another chimes in.

     "Who cares? He won't be livin' here."

     Hearing my future talked about so leisurely has me trembling. My eyes start to fill with moisture, my nose burns, and my lip wobbles.

      I'm mighty close to crying, and I don't want to shed tears amongst my clan. I may be tested with this marriage agreement, but I will not let my pride take a hit. I will remain strong and tall as I walk past the gossiper.

     I clasp my hands together before me, making my back stiff to perfect my posture.

     My eyes flick to the people who speak about me, and they immediately quiet down, looking guilty for being caught. I nod to them in dismissal, walking along as if none of it happened at all. I wonder what they must think of me. Poor little Ailsa Sinclair, riddled with a disease and being shipped off to her likely death.

     My lungs are beginning to quiver, and I know I'm losing this battle. I must return to my room before my composure slips. I can't release my emotions yet, they need to be bottled up for the remainder of the journey.

      I quicken my pace when the amount of eyes decreases around me, practically racing up the stairs.

      I fling open my door, slamming it shut and carefully making my way to my bed. I gently roll onto the mass of blankets and furs, my eyes already leaking down my face as I push myself further into the cushion of warmth.

       Finally, I allow the rivers of sorrow to flow. Once they start, they won't stop for a while, so I let them do as they wish. They sprinkle all the way down my next, slicking my chest and shoulders as I continue to lay flat on my stomach.

      I don't sob. I cannot afford such a luxury as that. It requires too much lung strength that I do not have. I simply lay and let the emotion leak out of me until I'm dried up. That way, I wont be able to cry for weeks to come.

      The tears seem to build up in the back of my head. Each harsh word, each ugly thought, they all pile on one another until the salty discharge needs to be released for the sake of my sanity.

     I sniffle, finally done with feeling sorry for myself. I wipe at my face with my wrist, going searching for my handkerchief to blow my nose.

      I feel pathetic, useless. I should be out there standing up to my father. Instead, I am here tucked away in my room at the top of a secluded tower, crying away at the thought of losing my power, losing my life and all the choices that are supposed to come with it.