BOOK 3: The Mafia Game (Hiatus)

TMG 51: Amaryllis

TMG 51: AMARYLLIS

White roses.

White roses, those thorn-less ones, because she loves them – really loves them.

Vincent vaguely remembers what she had said about white, thorn free roses. It's something about the youthfulness and love at first sights. The purity, silence and I am worthy of you. Vincent remembers clearly how she snorts loudly after hearing the words. How she pretend to mock the girl for saying something exceptionally cheesy like that. How the girl laughs fondly while gently pushing at her arm. How Vincent secretly agreed with her; because white, thorn-less roses fits the girl perfectly, because she's worthy of everything that's good.

But she also remembers how the girl told her in quiet, soft voice that Amaryllis is what she loves best, because that flower reminds her of Vincent. She remembers asking her why, sounding nonchalant on the outside but she knows herself inside she's curious for real of the way she perks up at the words. The girl smiles at her brightly, eyes disappearing and straight set of white teeth showing before saying sweetly, "Because Amaryllis means full of pride." Vincent rolled her eyes at that but a ghost of smile hint her lips that she couldn't deny. "Because back in Victorian times, prideful women are considered beautiful, Vincent." Vincent remembers telling her to shut up afterwards.

So Vincent makes sure to drop by her new home – cold and pale, probably uncomfortable kind of home; a big contrast to the home she likes babbling about that she would be living in in the future, a colorful, bright comfy home – sitting in front and tracing the golden intricate, gorgeous curves of the name with her thumb, just as gorgeous as the owner, and quietly lay the Amaryllis down beside.

She then left with a painful smile on her lips, turning around and walking away – once again – after murmuring a soft, wavering sorry under her breath.

Of all things, she's best at running away, she muses to herself.

Vincent thinks she can't breathe. She feels like something's clogged in her throat as she tries her best to swallow and gulp air. She tries to expand her slowly, painfully, tightening lungs by inhaling and exhaling carefully, eyes tightly closed with the effort to focus her mind solely on her breathing pattern.

It's not until after at least a couple of minute and a half of frantic heartbeats and lungs burning from the lack of oxygen that she feels herself finally warming up again. Blood rushing back to her veins, ears still slightly buzzing and face coloring back from its death pale; cold sweat prickling her forehead down her neck. One of her hands shakily reached up to swipe the slick off her skin, goosebumps still present on their wake.

It's been exactly a year. And everything is still fresh in her memories. As if it all just happened yesterday, earlier, just a minute ago; details swirling and spiraling in her brain in crystal clear images, pulling on her strings until she's drowning. It's a dream she doesn't want to wake up to but also a nightmare she wants to bury 6ft. under the ground and wish for a harsh waves to crush and wash it until nothing remains. She can't decide if she wants to consider it a distant wistful thinking or a bad kind of dream.

Devy's memories are dreams and nightmares at the same time. And Vincent can't decide if wants to be trapped in those memories for as long as she can or escapes as soon as possible. Maybe yes; maybe no. She's not sure. She doesn't know. Vincent has always been uncertain in so many things that it always ends up in bad decision makings and rash actions and regrets. It's a painful reminder of how big of a mess she was – is.

It's been exactly a year and she's still nothing but a mess. It's a shame.

Vincent's dark, still slightly glazed and unfocused eyes slowly darts beside her nightstand where a small, black digital clock was seated. A red 3:47AM glaring hard back at her, blinking in synch of her thankfully calming heartbeats, almost mocking of how her night for the entire year has always been; self-deprecating, sleepless, restless.

She pulled the soft, warm duvet away from her – her small frame silently screaming for it to engulf her body back again in the warmth as the chill of the room hits her skin, waking her completely in the most unpleasant way, as always – letting it pool at the end of the too-big bed for her size before getting up on shaky, unsteady feet and wincing at the contact of cold floor against her bare soles.

Vincent lightly padded over the balcony of her room where she mentally calls her own haven after the first two weeks of living in the house. Her feet left soft whispers against the floor, skin adjusting to the cold too quickly. She carefully slides the glass door open not to create any noise, just enough for her slim body to slide in between the space. The familiar cold air hits her cheeks, biting her skin and coloring them just the slightest tinge of pink. She stood in front of metal bar encasing the balcony, busy city even in the deep night overlooking from where she stands.

And from under the moonlight, Vincent almost looks like calm, normal, peaceful, and ethereal. It's almost a perfect picture of perfect. A young girl in her 20's standing outside her room for a breath of fresh air. It's just that, it's not. Everything is wrong. None of it, not a single, is right.

For one, she's not calm; she's blank. She has been dead inside since the early age of 10. She has been dead for that long. She's lifeless. A lone soul wandering to find escape, help, anything that could make her out of this cruel maze called life.

Two, she's definitely not normal and she knows it. She knows it well. Her whole life is a lie. She grew up in a lie and was surrounded by people who were not so shamelessly lied to her face. They call it keeping a secret, a shield for the truth, but nonetheless still a lie; a sugarcoated fucking kind of lies. Everything about her definitely isn't normal.

Three, she's not peaceful. She's fucking far from it. If one would dare explore what's in her mind now, she bet her fortunes that that person will be gone insane in the end. There's no single cell in her system that is peaceful for the last 10 years. Everything about a Vincent Mc Garden is a mess. A total mess it's fucking disgusting.

And for the last one, she definitely is not an ethereal. She's a living dead. A breathing corpse. And everyone knows that dead and corpse are not beauties. They're meant to be buried and unseen. They're meant away from the eyes. They're meant there.

She maybe still exist, but she has forgotten a long time ago how to live. She's barely surviving it's a pity.

How beautiful life is for someone like Vincent, huh.

A tired sigh escapes her lips, creating a ghost of fog in front of her mouth as she exhales. She shuffles towards the corner of the balcony, sitting with less grace as a Ferrer-McGarden should be, legs straight in front of her and locking on the ankles, head leaning on the wall. Hugging herself in hopes to keep herself a bit warm, she reluctantly closes her eyes. It's cold outside and it's a total dumb of her to sleep there. But she thinks it's still so much better than lying on her bed and tucked under warm duvet. The cold wind helps her feel physically numb the emotional pain for a moment.

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This is too short but I think is needed before we move on. What do you think?

And also is so late :( excuse all the kinds of errors cos I didn't do proofread as usual and I've been stuck for 5 months I forgot how to write. Excuse my writing style.