Martyred Soul

Chapter 9

I have a big decision to make. One—I like to flatter myself—that can alter the history of the Cataline Kingdom.

            Do I continue with the Revolution and my revenge plans?

            Or do I join forces with Simeon Cataline to possible save the people?

            Speaking of Simeon Cataline, he made me really thing of what I want, and forced it from my lips.

            I do not want any other person to go through my life, but killing the King is pretty high up on my Bucket List.

            I hate him, I hate what he did to my family and me. I want him to suffer, and Saraya and her gang are allowing me to let him. That is surely not something that Simeon Cataline will let me do.

            But he made a good point.

            What if Saraya and the other Revolution leaders turn out to rule just like the King?

            During training, they already proved to me that they rule fiercely. At the time, I thought it was necessary, but my recent lapse of insanity—or should it be sanity? I don’t even know anymore—in the white cell has me questioning that.

            Is there a way to rule effectively and lovingly at the same time?

            My mind is at a stand-still.

            I go to where my changing screen is, and grab a mirror that hangs on the wall behind it. I take it back to my bed and lean it against the wall there.

            For the first time in seven years, I look into the mirror. I study the image of myself.

            The person I see in the mirror is unfamiliar to me.

            Her eyes—my eyes—are a piercing gray, like the color of the sky when it’s angry, grumbling, and about ready to pour down on everyone underneath. Dark marks smudge underneath my eyes. I look sallow, with slightly hollow cheeks. My lips are perfectly pink, and set in my usual scowl. My jaw line is prominent, hard, clenched. Unruly, wavy black hair cascades down either side of my face from a messy part in the middle.

            I’m surprised to say that I actually find myself at least pretty. In a messy, fierce, uncaring kind of way.

            My eyebrows raise, my lips curling up the tiniest bit.

            My mocking face.

            I just gave myself my mocking face!

            A disgusted sound rises from my throat.

            I clear my face and search in my eyes for something familiar.

            My heart squeezes as I realize that I that I look somewhat like a scraggly, skinny, stony version of my mother.

            On a whim, I try to smile and soften my eyes, picturing how my mother always looked.

            The expression is all wrong; my smile too twisted, my eyes too guarded.

            I do not recognize myself.

            It seems as if Marta isn’t the only one.

            I try again, this time with a toothy grin.