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CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
⎾NEW YORK CITY ⏋
SHE FELT LIKE A PART OF HER GAVE UP, she still thought of it― thought of it while she strolled again under the great oaks and the moon whose shadows were long upon the acres of turf. At the end of a few minutes, perhaps hours― she lost count of time, she found herself near a rustic bench, which, a moment after she had looked at it, struck her as an object recognised. It was not simply that she had seen it before, nor even that she had sat upon it; it was that on this spot something important had happened to her― that the place had an air of association. Then she had remembered that she had been sitting here, five years before, when her good old friend brought her a letter, a letter in which her mom adressed her, and when she decided to read the letter she looked up to see Georgina DuBois' comforting face. On that bench, she learned that her mother loved her, that her father adored her, that it was against their will to let their daughters alone in a cruel cruel world. On that bench she felt an emotion she hadn't experienced in five years; hope.
It was a short moment of happiness, she stood and looked at it as if it might have something to say to her. She wouldn't sit down on it now― she felt rather afraid of it. She only stood before it, and while she stood the past came back to her in one of those rushing waves of emotion by which persons of sensibility are visited at odd hours. The effect of this agitation was a sudden sense of being very tired, under the influence of which she overcame her scruples and sank into the grass. If anyone had seen her, they would have admired the justice of the former epithet, they would at least have allowed that at this moment she was the image of a victim of loneliness. Her attitude had a singular absence of emotion and purpose; her hands, hanging at her sides, lost themselves in the long green grass; her eyes gazed vaguely before her at the moon― the moon that smiled sadly at her as thought it felt her sadness and loneliness. There was nothing to recall her back to life. She was a victim of infidelity and betrayal.
˙ TWELVE HOURS EARLIER ˙
Giselle was breathing heavily while she looked at the exact door, a door she knew that once she would go through it, her life will forever chance. A gun in her hand, her heart in the other. Was it okay that her heart weights more than the deathly piece of metal? With the amount of hate, resentment, and love that it held― yes, it was okay.
She pushed the door open, slowly but surely. And as soon as she did, she came face to face with the person that shattered her heart, and broke her trust, a person she didn't think would betray her and ten years of acquaitance if not friendship. Her gun cocked, aimed at a friend, a sister.
