His Bloody Bride

Chapter 15: Sweet Rejections & Painful Attractions.

Chapter Fifteen: Sweet Rejections & Painful Attractions.

Note: Please read the author's note at the end because it is important. 

I sit. I’m unsure on what exactly, but surely by the prickly and worn feel of the adamant surface beneath my bum, it’s a bench. I listen. The soft hiss of the tree dancing, the whistle of the wind, the accidentally drop of plates in floors below, all assist in my ability to confirm a belief.

Something is off.

I take a deep breath. Realizing I’m stressing over nothing, I try to focus on something else. I let my eyes scan around the room and unknowingly, my eyes fall on Maria. It’s natural for me to. Her face is as familiar to me as my own simple—because it is. Her appearance is somewhat disheveled. Her hair is straight, yes, but her hair frizzes into small balls near her temples due to sweat. The whites in her dark eyes are a pinkish hues, something I haven’t realized until now. Has she been crying? The combination seems unlikely, but as I recall Isabelle and the fear of her rejection—of how much she reminds me of the sister I’ve never had—and shiver as my heart breaks and my eyes water at the thought of her death. I can understand, yet can’t at the same time.

I never knew she loved her sister.

The guilt that would be a reasonable response to her grief remains non extinct within me. I recall how it felt to rip into Eva's throat, my stomach burning with hunger remembering the delicious taste that had washed over my tongue at the encounter. I don't feel guilty. I don't want to. Eva tried to kill me, and Maria has done so many awful things in her life, why should I be?

Besides, Eva's death is completely justified. It was self defense, a reaction to my life being threatened. A reaction to the look in her eyes. She'd gone cold, as if in the few minutes we were apart, she’d changed. She had. At first, she'd been so absorbed in life, enjoying it as it came to her. Afterwards, she'd been engrossed in death. Mine specifically. I’m not even sure how that is logical, but I’m Mary Hale—nothing about me is logical.

The tension in the air suffocates me slowly. Almost as if it is a tangible matter I can touch. Frost had returned from the village graveyard with Maria a while ago, and awkwardly enough, he’d caught me in Erebus’s arms. It's not like we'd been caught in bed, simply I'd been crying, sobbing into him for comfort, and nothing else besides worth and hushed reassurances were exchanged. But in his arms I forgot about others, about Frost, and I guess that's a betrayal to Frost.

He'd been as understanding as he could have been when stumbling upon the scene. Maria had stayed quiet, sending Frost an unknown look before simply passing us as she continued on with her walk. I had tried explaining it to him but he said it was alright, that he'd understood. He'd then stormed off into Isabelle’s temporary room, to be by his friend's side no doubt. Isabelle is still unconscious, and Tybalt has stayed by her side, caring for her the way a lover should. The way I had when Frost was bitten.

I stand in the corner, with my arms crossed, keeping distance between everyone in the room. I have reason to stay away from Erebus—it'll seem inappropriate to be so close with him—Frost—he seems upset, possibly angry—Maria—I don't even have to start with that—Tybalt—I am not in the mood to being slapped again—and Isabelle—I can't stand to be near her while she is in this state.

Occasionally, Frost sends a glance in my direction—warm, caring—then in Erebus'—dark, full of hatred; jealousy.

I’m not even sure if I should be scared or happy about that fact. Possibly a bit of both? “How do you know if her body rejects the change?” I ask, addressing the elephant in the room.