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22 - Beta

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Snow

The sharp blade caught in between the strands of her hair.

One hand held the stubborn curls in a firm grip, the other held the leather handle of the knife. Snow heard strands of her hair pluck, ringing a tune as the brown curls rested against the sharpened blade. She shut her eyes and all she could see was the headstone that held Margaux's name.

Rippling fury consumed her as she pushed the piercing metal through her hair. She felt her head grow light as the strands fell to her feet. Now, curls of dark brown that still smelled of lavender scattered on her bedroom floor.

One of the Rogues injured her deeply in battle.

The brown locks snapped as she slid the blade through her nape. Snow could not face a mirror. She could not bear to look at herself. She was trembling, throbbing, on the brink of emptiness that she could not escape from. Frizzed jagged ends lined the tips of her hair. The blade and its sheer weight landed on stone as her body followed. She dropped, back sliding against the wall with both hands on her face, shoulders bobbing.

Her chest marked a bottomless pit, it ached and how it made her curse. All hurt she could possibly bear, now dripped as tears run down her cheeks. It was like a river overflowing against the bank, a helpless, screaming, inaudible cry that could almost fill the room but shamefully obscure.

Everything caved in. As she slammed closed fists on her chest, she felt the tower echo the firm thuds of skin against skin.

She gulped in air, wondering when will every shameful, pathetic breathe end. She slammed her back against the stone wall. The sharp edges of the bricks indented against her skin. The physical pain was inferior compared to the one that she had in her chest.

Snow could only think of one memory of Margaux.

She bit her lip as visions of the Reaping surfaced in her mind. Margaux was happy in those woods. She was giggling in short brief moments during the hunt. She was perfectly fine.

Snow remembered how her sister's hands intricately braided her hair. Though the locks lay stubborn, Margaux did it anyway. Every stroke, every brush, hurt. Snow could not bear to keep the long curls.

It was a shame, if all of it were just a dream.

I'll be under an oak tree.

Snow remembered, how her voice sounded like, how the edges of her lips would occasionally raise to accommodate her words, how her eyebrows would twitch every time she began to read minds.

"Under an oak tree," Her lips trembled. Another clenched fist hit her chest.

Every memory, every truth she ever held dear was lost. Snow's grasp in reality was slipping away as everything became uncertain. And something more than sadness, more than doubt crept into her heart. It was a force stronger than a void. And for years she suppressed it, the one thing she dread going back to.

It was the feeling she had whenever they'd drag her into the dungeon. And, now fear has come back from the ashes to haunt her.

"Snow?"

Clara's voice came after a knock on the door. Snow darted her eyes at it, wishing the damn wood didn't exist. Snow wanted to be left alone. She did not have the energy to talk in the language of lies nor did she have the stomach to listen to it.