I Got Addicted To A Losing Game - Mattheo Riddle

⤑ Chapter 1: Cause every scrap of you would be taken from me

Esmeralda stood amidst the sea of mourners, the lush green grass beneath her feet a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere that enveloped the gathering.

The sun hung low in the sky, its golden rays bathing the mourners in an ethereal light that seemed to soften the harsh edges of their grief.

As she sat there, Esme felt the weight of expectation pressing down upon her. The silent demand that she shed tears and join in with the chorus of mournful sobs that echoed through the air.

Yet, as she gazed at the coffin, a cold detachment settled over her, as if she were observing the proceedings from a great distance.

The world seemed to be moving in slow motion, the funeral a macabre dance of ritual and tradition that held no meaning for her. 

As the crowd around her wept openly, their cries filling the surrounding area. Esme remained stoic, her eyes dry and her expression impassive.

She understood, on some level, that her grandfather's death should've elicited some sort of emotional response—sorrow, sadness, devastation, something.

Still, she felt only empty, a void where her emotions should've been.

Esme wondered if there was something fundamentally wrong with her, some essential piece of her humanity now seemingly gone.

How could she sit at her grandfather's graveside, the man who'd raised her, and feel nothing?

As the service dragged on, the emptiness within Esmeralda only grew, consuming her until it felt like all that remained was a hollow shell of the person she once was.

She tried desperately to anchor herself to the present moment, to pay heed to the eulogies that were being spoken, but her focus was elusive. 

The world around Esme began to blur, the crowds words a distant hum.

Her mind wandered, searching for some place that offered some sort of relief from the suffocating numbness that suffocated her.

The sudden end of the funeral service seemed to snap Esme back to reality, jarring her from the fog of her own thoughts.

It was only then that she realized her grandmother, Walburga, had been urging her towards the limousine, her expression a mask of impatience.

In her daze, Esme failed to notice the hurried whispers of condolence and the sympathetic glances from the group who pretended to understand the depth of her loss.

Though, she was swept away before she could fully process what was happening, her opportunity to say a final farewell to her grandfather slipping through her fingers.

As the limousine pulled away from the graveyard, leaving behind the somber gathering and the gaping hole in the earth where her grandfather now lied, Esme felt a spark of anger ignite within.

The emptiness remained there, cold and unrelenting, but now it was tinged with something new, something that felt dangerously close to defiance.

Esmeralda's disdain for Walburga ran deep, a resentment that had been building since she was a child. Her grandmother was a woman of exacting standards, her expectations impossibly high, her patience impossibly thin.

A dropped fork at dinner, a smudge on her carefully polished floors, a word whispered out of turn. Each transgression, no matter how small, would only send Walburga into a fury.

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The chair beneath Esme felt hard and unforgiving as she shifted uncomfortably, the oppressive silence of the dining room punctuated only by the clinking of silverware against porcelain.