𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇. meguru bachira

XIII

A girl does not just cry because she is sad. A girl cries because the beats of her heart begin to slow down. A girl cries because the thing that beats in her heart begins to walk away. A girl cries because she has to walk away.

The girl does not cry because she has to walk away. The girl was once the middle kingdom. The girl was once sober.

But the dusty taste of liquor on her tongue is threatening. She still hears it in her mind the more she even thinks about it. His voice so loud in her ears. 'I like Eris Vasílissa.' His words were dangerous. His words were a weapon he didn't know would pierce through her.

Eris is a girl. Eris is a girl who continues to fall over the hands of something. Eris is a girl that has been brought down from her middle kingdom. Eris is a girl that is not bowed to but bows. Not usually, right? Eris is a girl who owns the field but not her life.

Even with the words she wants to let escape from her tongue as the heat rushes through her blood. "Disgusting." She murmurs. Her words slur as the bartender laughs at her worriedly. A bartender.

Truthfully, everyone is not what they think they are or who others think they are. Everyone is defined by one thing and one thing only — what they own. One who does not own control over their own selves does not become someone.

She is a girl who does not own control over her own self. She is an object that does not own control over her own movements. She is the doll whose arm has been replaced with her leg. She is the doll who sits patiently in that doll house waiting to be toyed with.

A girl is not a doll. Eris Vasílissa is not a girl. Eris Vasílissa is not. "Long day, I believe?" A bartender is not one who simply serves drinks. A bartender is someone who sees a customer and reads them. A bartender is someone who must know the customer more than the customer knows themselves.

"When is it not, Ricardo?" The words escape its mouth. Ricardo does not know himself, nor does he truly know the problems of Vasílissa. However, he does not question his ability to read another. "Truly, you've been dealt a rough hand in life, amore mio."

Ricardo has seen the world, bartended for those who now hold enough power to spin the world. Ricardo knows more than one can imagine because he has seen people. But Ricardo is still yet to truly see Eris. Nobody has truly seen her.

Not even the stupid boy who keeps trying to climb into this locked heart of hers. There was no key from the start. Her heart is an ice that does melt. Her mind continues to die as if being posioned with methane.

She does not understand herself. She does not understand it. "Have I, Ricardo? Haven't we all?" Ricardo chuckles as he refills her glass. "Your mind is still young despite being so poisoned. I can't tell you much, but I can tell you life fucking hates you."

The words were not unkind because Ricardo did not wish to be unkind to her. Eris knows Ricardo did not wish to be unkind. "It's simply because you're unlucky, amore mio." Unlucky.

What is such luck? Eris looks up. "It seems you have forsaken me, Tyche." She murmurs absent-mindedly. He looks at the girl without even raising a brow. She finishes the drink in one single sip. "Truly, you have forsaken me."

Eris Vasílissa is a girl. A girl who wishes to cry solemnly. A girl who should have only cried to the sound of sad music. A girl who does not cry even when her body lay sprawled up on the floor. Eris Vasílissa does not cry even when she dies.

However, her death has already passed. Her coffin simply covered up in the dirty lies she spews. "You shouldn't drink so much, kid. It hurts your lungs." She sighs exasperatedly. "If I breathe too much, my lungs will hurt. If I do not breathe, my lungs will hurt. Ricardo, my lungs do not work because I am not breathing."

The bartender gives up quite easily. His job is not to persuade his client not to drink; his job is to serve a drink that utterly revives them. Eris never had a life to resurrect from.

Her legs lift off the chair with an unfamiliar gentleness. "Amore mio, the oxygen surely misses you." Are the only words he utters as she leaves the bar with one last sip of the burning alcohol. Her chest burns so familiarity that she can't help but comfort in it.

Comfort — a feeling she has never been able to adjust to. Simply because comfort is a feeling that does not last in the arms of a Goddess. She is one who creates chaos, who destroys. She destroys herself along with those around her.

Yet, the world feels like a place she does not belong in. As if she is no more than an object who resides in it not because she is needed, but simply because she has not left yet. However, she does not know how much longer she can stay in such a pit.

Even as the dirty rocks enter her heels, even as the winter snow falls on her bare skin, she does not think. She looks up at the sky once again. The sky has never looked so enticingly beautiful as if it's a siren calling her to its arms. The sky is a poison that she lets fall on her lips.

She can taste the stars on her tongue as she lies on the moon. It is not the sun that makes the moon red but the blood she sheds. It drips over so beautifully as others admire it. She is not the moon nor the sun; she is not a star. She is simply the blood that pours to give it colour.

The poison of the air spreads through her body like death. "Tyche, αγαπημένη μου, you have forsaken me."

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Chapter end ! (Vote)

Tyche is the Greek goddess of Luck

Starting to love this fic again

Eat well, sleep well and don't forget to hydrate. I love you so much please