PHOENIX. [sequel to 067]

25. it's all about the power, power.

and so you shut it, closing your mouth so that you didn't annoy the man any further.

however, while your mouth remains closed, your mind simply goes right back into overdrive. everyone seems to know so much more about you, about your past reality and past fate, than you do. and you know nothing about them — don't you? the tsaritsa, a goddess, is all you know of her. zandik, you learned his real name just  a few hours ago. morax, whom you've just learned was a god and he already knew you were a vampire — a fact of your life that took you so long to know, it felt like. how is this, any, of this fair to you? just, what have you done within your past — no, deceased — life that warranted this mental torture? this ... this cruelty.

you couldn't help but feel like a small child, or what you thought one was supposed to feel like, anyways. were you always this confused? were you once smart in your youth? were you always feeling this form of panic, or were you able to enjoy your days? you couldn't help but feel small, however, in this room ... filled with all these who are so much more powerful than you, so much more knowledgeable than you.

. . . just what did you know anyways?

with all of your panicked thoughts, there was some deeper part of you — something deep within your soul that doesn't cling to reason. something that feels ... comfortable? this whole situation, questioning your reality and your very being — of zandik's very being — creates a feeling of deja vû. you've done this before. you've stood beside zandik before and questioned everything about you. you've felt this fear before. but it's within this fear that comfort grabs ahold of your brain, like someone grabbing the reigns of a horse. it stops you in your thought processes, and just as zandik had told you to — you knock it off.

you stand beside him, void of any true expression on your face as your fingers continued to trace along the scars on your body. scars hold stories, and these stories have been hidden from you for so long — but do you really even want to know them? maybe you're better off not knowing, or maybe this is you trying to rationalize this in your sick brain, but you're happy now. so why dig at the past? it clearly makes zandik angry, and you'd never want his rage focused on you. so why give it a reason?

it wouldn't be much longer until the meeting between gods was over, and the tsaritsa would dismiss zandik and you moments later. everyone seemed to have gotten what they wanted, even if there was a lingering resentment between everyone in the room — but just like that, a war was ended with the tsaritsa having the upper hand just as she wanted.

zandik grabs ahold of your lower forearm, a touch that makes your body immediately flinch and shy away. he held that same irritated expression in his eyes, and you couldn't help but close your eyes for a few seconds. anything, you'd do absolutely anything, if it meant you'd never have to look at the way he's staring into your soul right now.

   "you have questions, yeah? talk, then," he says to you, his voice sharper than a thousand knives. his tone crueler than the wrath of a hundred men.

he had dragged you out into a secluded section of the hallway. secluded just enough to where you couldn't see anyone, but public enough to cause a feeling of humiliation to crash over you. you had tried to make a scene in front of his superior, in front of gods, but could you even really stick to it?

     "what did you do to me?" the words come out faster than you had hoped, and you just ... couldn't help yourself, could you? your breathing becomes quicker as you felt your eyes widening, your hands immediately digging into themselves.

    "what did i do to you?" he repeats in a sarcastic tone, "do you mean what you did to yourself?"

he laughs. he laughs at you and your stupidity, and it's the only sound that fills your ears as it echoes through the halls.

     "archons, 067," he says admist his laughter and you couldn't help but scrunch your face at the number. a number. you're surely more than a number, no? you're a person, the one of which he's called his lover — the one of which he's had in his bed, the one of which he's killed for. and now you're just a number? again?

    "don't call me that," your own tone hardens and your eyes narrow — it's disgusting. to be reduced to nothing but a mere number.

    "oh, so you can't remember anything  but you can hate a number?" he says, his laughter cutting short, "why would i tell you anything, y/n? you weren't the most behaved for me in front of my own boss, after all."

    "because you love me and my past isn't something you can just hold over my fucking head!" you shout at him, your hands moving about frantically as if trying to express your frustrations.

    "do i?" he questions. his brows raise in a mock sort of gesture, and the space around you two falls silent, falls short.

he has to love you. he has to love you, he has to love you. he's said before, hasn't it? you try to recall all of your past moments, all of the pet names, the loving gestures. all of the touches, and little moments. everything. he has to love you. he's treated you so well up until now, just what changed?

    "what?" you couldn't help but laugh to yourself, the question having caught you so off guard that you didn't know what to do. in this situation, or even witj yourself, you didn't know.

    "i said: do i? do i love you, y/n?" he asks, arms crossing over his chest.

     "is that ... a serious question?"

      "you tell me," he says absentmindedly, waving a hand dismissively at you.

maybe, just maybe, you shouldn't have said anything at all.

___
i've rediscovered my love for writing psychological abuse sooo expect less of a wait between updates. sorry guys ... totally didn't forget about you ...

— salem.
feel free to bother me about updates btw