Fear

Chapter Twenty-Two

(Chapter is a year old)

(long ass note at the bottom)

(ps. unedited)

Chapter Twenty-Two

"I didn't mean it."

Those were usually the first word's out of Harlow's mouth when the sharpened ends of the whip cracked across her skin in deep angry red-dripping lines of sentences strung together in harsh conjunctions and empty tones.

They're sorry words,

they mean you regret your actions.

Mean that whatever you did wasn't worth it.

Did she mean it?

Did she mean she loved him?

...

She's frozen, all ice and stiff limbs.

Fingernails ready to chip off in flakes, breath puffing into nothing but the oblivion of the cold. Her toes are digging into the crunching crisp ice of snow. Although it's supposed to be warmer now, in this season - Northern Canada doesn't seem to agree.

Harlow feels weird, her lungs are screaming in protest with every dry airy breath she allows to swirl in, but her mind is screeching with an equal force that - this is right, this feels good.

Maybe it's because the outside landscape is reflecting her inside landscape.

Maybe it's because after four cups of straight black coffee, and two hours of sleep she feels nothing.

She woke up in Louden's arms this morning. All winding legs and caging arms.

It might even be the reason that her throat has swollen into something unintelligible, something thick with emotion and cold.

The snow has begun to sink into the width between her toes now, almost stinging the fleshy spaces into something oddly numbing.

"Harlow?"

She doesn't want to answer, and why should she?

She has no obligation, no part to play, no reason to flit around and do someone's bidding.

Because that wasn't her job.

It never would be,

not again.

Never again.

"What?" It's biting, cruel even. She doesn't mean for it to be, it just is. Simply existing in a tone that both singing and frozen, to it's receiver, twisting into something dueling choking. Deadly and locked up with a key that only hung around her chest, in her heart. It sat in her soul and told her to do terrible things.

It always had.

"We need to talk, child." It's Sabel, all soft worried eyes that remind Harlow of melted emotion and honeycombs, Her dark weathered skin is even more wrinkled in and around her mouth, her worry-lines creating creases in the brown seams of her features.

Harlow gulps, tucking a wayward piece of hair behind her ear.

"I know," her voice is cool and crisp, like the snow in front of them, her throat swallowing in an emotion kindred to realization. It's not as cruel, maybe even quiet now. The chill is still there though, racking goose bumps around her arms in something terrifyingly dazed.

"Louden doesn't want to tell you this," Sabel sighs, creeping up next to Harlow in that soft soundless way only someone with experience can. When her dark brown eyes meet Harlow's she feels a sort of peace settle over her body, worn like a mask until it was like a cinder block thrown in the middle of a river. Slowly, and surely sinking in. "And I'd usually respect his damn wishes, but-" she sighs. Eyes narrowing in a way that portrayed her concentration. "I thought you had a right to know."