cupid clearly hates me.

[ 19 ]

You went to bed with a stone-cold feeling of absolute dread in your chest.

Not wanting to be dramatic about the matter, you tried to just go to sleep in the guest bedroom and let Alastor's words leave no effect on you. But he still said them and they still had meaning. Each sentence, each description of how pure you were left a scarring imprint in your heart like the serrated blade of a knife.

This feeling left you lying on your back and staring up at the ceiling, unable to find rest.

Could you really go to heaven, if you wanted to? Would that be best thing to do? Would heaven be peaceful, with less drama and confusion?

Or what if Alastor and Rosie had just read you wrong? What if, in reality, you were not pure, but instead lived as a being full of sin just like everyone else down here?

These thoughts twisted and turned in your mind, and so did you over the covers. You were wide awake, and the temperature of the air seemed to instantly switch between too hot and too cold, preventing you from finding comfort.

So you decided to take a shower. The cold rush of the water over your skin eased your mind and helped you realize just how tired you were.

When you left the bathroom, you stole a glance at the clock and saw that it was already 1:46 in the morning.

☆

When you woke up, it was almost noon.

You quickly got dressed and shuffled down the grand oak staircase. The air was quiet and contained the faint smell of baked goods—like one you would find in a bakery, only less strong—but it still didn't overpower the ever-present stench of blood. Your stomach audibly growled as you walked into the kitchen, the tiled floor cold against your bare feet.

Alastor was making food, as you had assumed. His back was turned your way, and you noticed that he was wearing a tee shirt instead of a suit. Maybe he wasn't planning on going anywhere today. The thought filled your heart with an odd swell of happiness.

"Good morning," Alastor said before you had the chance to speak. Yet again, he surprised you with his ability to hear you coming, even when your footsteps were nearly silent.

"Morning." You walked over to him and peeked around his arm, which was scrapping something off of an iron skillet. "Pancakes? For me?"

"Precisely!"

"You're too good for me."

Alastor laughed. It was a very light laugh, like a quick exhale or a content sigh. "No, quite the opposite is true, my dear. After all, you're the one who's too good for hell itself!" He placed the pancake on a china plate sitting on the counter. There was a little glass bottle full of maple syrup positioned next to it.

"Yeah, I guess so..." You folded your hands in front of you and tried to focus on breathing. The mere idea of Rosie and the many conversations that had occurred over the course of yesterday about your purity brought a clenching feeling inside of your ribs, like the firm grip of a kidnapper that refused to let go.

Alastor gave you a peculiar frown as he absentmindedly turned the stove flame off. He placed the last fluffy, sugary smelling pancake on top of the premade stack. "How are you feeling?"

"Weird."

"Everyone always feels weird. Give me a real answer."

You shrugged and looked at the pancakes, your appetite suddenly turning sour. Claws with razor edges groped at the inside of your throat, fighting to get out, begging for you to vomit as if doing so might make you feel better. You knew that it wouldn't, so you swallowed the feeling down and blinked slowly. "I'm confused," you admitted. "I just want things to be normal. Straightforward. Do you know what I mean?"