Devils and Angels

xxxiii. the truth hurts worse

v i r i d i t y

naivety, innocence

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DYLAN HELD ME BACK FROM leaping to my feet, locking his arms around my waist to keep me from becoming a crumpled mess on the floor. My racing heart protested, but the austerity in his eyes was enough of a reason to keep my mouth shut.

He's just trying to keep you safe, I told myself, hating that I needed a reminder at all.

"Easy, Kat," He reprimanded, out of worry rather than anger. "What's with you? What was that?" My brother's face was blanched, features pinched with concern.

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter. It was just...well, at first I thought it was a nightmare, but..." I licked my lips. "Dyl, when was the last time our parents got engaged?"

He paused in deep rumination, his eyes flaring the same shade as hers in the darkness—scintillating blue, the exact contrast to the crimson of my blood as it'd trickled down my flesh, and had formed fragments of heart-shaped puddles on the obsidian floor.

"Maybe...ten, eleven years ago?" He answered, uncertain. "Why do you ask?"

I thought of the waves of heat crawling up my arms; diamonds becoming knives, and my mother fading into shadow, warping into a stranger right in front of my eyes. Unconsciously, my thumbs found the scars on my wrists, and pressed into them, as if the realisation that they were there would harden my resolve.

"Because it's a different ring." My voice was hoarse and quavering. "I know it's a different ring."

"Kat..." His eyebrows threaded together. "It's not. I remember the ring. It was that exact one."

"But it wasn't," I argued, a lump forming in my throat. "It was the exact same shape and style as the one she has now, but they're not the same ring."

"How do you know?" Dylan remained dubious, only continuing to question for my sake.

I swallowed, thumbing my scars once more.

"The original one has my blood on it. I'm positive."

Dylan prised my hands away from each other, placing them gently on the bedspread, either side of my thighs. He shuffled closer, resting his hand on my knee. While he dripped concern, his eyes were molten with shock and disbelief that resonated throughout his core.

"I know you don't believe me," I challenged, before his mouth could form the words he was so obviously thinking. "But I'm certain. I know I didn't cut myself, but someone must have."

"But you think it was...Diana?" Her first name sounded alien on his tongue; he'd grown up to love his mother despite her flaws, but I'd torn down those walls, brick by brick.

"I'm certain," I repeated. "I didn't do this to myself. Anyone who thought so was wrong. I just wish I could prove it to you. But I just know."

"Right." He licked his lips, his cheeks paling in his face. "I'll be right back. Wait right here."

"I'm not moving any time soon," I returned dryly, watching him leave.

When his back had fully disappeared into the darkness of the corridor, I turned my face to the window; half-obscured by the curtains. The inky sky was thick with cloud, but a brilliant moon filtered through the glass, casting a pool of silver across my sheets.

My fingers clenched around the duvet, and swathes of fabric spilled through my fingers. The darkness was only my enemy because Diana had made it so.