Darling in the Dark: A Melizabeth Fanfiction

Chapter 4: Temporary, Until Permanent; Finding Warmth

Edit A/N: Ready for some possibly new and improved angst y'all? Hehehe~ ;~;

Elizabeth's P.O.V.

I laid down on the cold, stone dungeon floor of the tower, staring up at the dull, gray, stone expanse of the ceiling. I felt a shiver run up my spine and spread out across my entire body as I recalled everything and nothing at the same time, my head spinning from the soul-deep tiredness and chill I felt.

The look in Meliodas' eyes when he had hit me was reminiscent to the look I'd see in the mirror at night when awoke from the bad dreams; it was as if he was reliving traumatizing a memory, a horrifying nightmare—only for him to notice that it was me, that I was there.

Then came the guilt, the sorrow, the shame, the complex emotions painting his empty face as he realized that this was reality, and he had hurt an innocent. Though, I wasn't sure how I—a defiled, disgusting sinner—could ever be innocent again. Not after what my mother did to me.

It was then he had turned away from me, seemingly sad that he had hurt me in anyway possible. And not only that, but he had then followed through with my desperate request in a scenario when the power dynamic was clearly in his favor. I found it odd that my new jailer would be so accommodating to an impertinent prisoner such as myself. 

A yawn escaped my mouth as I pondered more on the subject and soon, I felt my eyes close, too heavy to refuse my fall into the darkness of my memories that could only be called nightmares...

♠♣冬♣♠

In her dreams....

It was cold. However it wasn't the usual cold feeling I held within my heart—no, it was the cold that paralyzed, desensitized, the bitter freezing that  holds you by the neck and chokes you till your last, dying breath. 

I was surrounded by and drifting in an ocean of this cold—comprised of the billions and trillions of tears I had shed endlessly and without end, both inwardly and outwardly over the centuries I had lived. My existence was entirely comprised of tears at this point; the very structure of my body and soul built from tears up.

I was an ice sculpture in a freezing ocean, stagnant, and tired. 

How is that a person can still feel so exhausted, even in their dreams; how can I still feel the same empty nothingness in my dreams the same way I do in reality?

Are dreams not supposed to be sanctuaries; shelters from the cruelest of realities I exist in?

Why must I still suffer the same, empty coldness then?

My eyes closed, a feeling of heaviness on my chest. 

I wish I could sleep peacefully...

Am I not even afforded that luxury anymore?

I supposed it made sense, for something like me. If I can feel hardly anything, am I even alive? The answer: no, I am not—a life of emptiness is not life at all; I am merely existing while chasing a false image of contentment.

I am a doll of ice; a sculpture of porcelain, cracked from the pressure of this great and terrible ocean. As I ponder over my paltry existence, I felt a click, a crack in the armor I had constructed around myself.

And then I melted.

I am falling, down, down, down and into a field of emerald green grass, my younger, innocent, childish self that was still perhaps worthy of salvation chasing after that boy, that one piece of happiness that I have to cling to in all my memories; the one memory that keeps me going.