❝𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗼𝗻 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲?❞
❝𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦.❞
𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗬 𝗣𝗢𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥 had a few, perhaps a little or more than a palm of qualms in his life. First up was the whole "The Boy-Who-Lived" shenanigans, then there was an ungodly am...
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XV. THE SHEDDING OF ANIMALS
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"And how could I ever refuse
I feel like I win when I lose"
WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF you were to have a dream?
Not just any dream, but one that lingered, night after night, year after year. A dream so unchanging that it became part of you, like a song stuck in your head that you can't shake off. Would you be confused? Perplexed? Or would you simply go mad, driven to the brink of insanity by the ceaseless repetition?
That was a question Marjorie often find herself to legitimately no one as she stood in the middle of the confusing plain inside of her head, so obscure, so mind-playing, the echo of them bouncing off the walls of her mind as she wandered. It would always be an endless landscape that was both familiar and unnerving. The dream was always the same — unchanging and relentless, a reflection of her deepest fears and desires, but it offered no answers, no resolutions. It was as if her mind was caught in an endless loop, playing the same scenes over and over, trapping her in a cycle that she couldn't break.
In her dream, she was always in a library. But not just any library — it was a peculiar one, an evanescent place that seemed to exist only in her memory. The wooden bookcases, pale and birch-like, held thousands of books, yet it was unlike the grand library in the manor where she had grown up. This one was smaller, seemingly cozier, but there was something unsettling about it. The atmosphere was eerie, as if the library itself was playing tricks on her, luring her into a false sense of security.
"Your father is a mean man, my dear," a voice whispered, one that had haunted her dreams for as long as she could remember. Marjorie looked around and saw a woman, her figure obscured by a hazy mist. Yet, she was familiar. The woman held a bundle in her arms, cooing softly. "You were not what was desired, but that makes you no less dear to me... Perseus will always be his son, but you, Marjorie Ophelia, will always be mine."
"Penelope, my wife," came a man's voice, cold and commanding. It was a voice that always sent a shiver down Marjorie's spine, even in her dreams. The woman — Penelope — looked up at Marjorie, her gaze piercing, as if she could see her. But then she turned away, her attention drawn to the grand doors that Marjorie had always feared.
"Marcius, my husband," Penelope replied, rising from her seat with the baby in her arms. Her voice was calm, but there was a tension in her movements, a quiet strength that belied the fear Marjorie felt.
"Don't rise, you are still in recovery," Marcius ordered as he approached his wife. His eyes briefly flicked to the baby in Penelope's arms, his expression one of disapproval. He dismissed the small life in her arms as an insignificant burden, the baby that was Marjorie in her dream, a symbol of his contempt. This scene played out every time, but in the waking world, Marjorie had no clear memory of it.
