𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺 {𝙘𝙝𝙤 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜/𝙤𝙘} ⚢

iv.

i breathed in and out, the tepid, stale air filling my lungs. the pain was still fervent, but it had been a couple of hours, nevertheless. i was now sitting again, rocking back and forth almost childlike in my angst.

i could never have done what bao did to someone i loved. i couldn't comprehend how he could. i trusted him. i loved him, and he had no respect for me. mama would be so ashamed of me (or would she be sad?).

i know papa would have murdered bao in frigid blood. part of me hated that i felt relief at the thought, life would definitely be simpler, but i know that grief and regret would have eaten me alive if it would have come down to that. those feelings-- they would have sank to the very core of my stomach, only then, to crawl their way up my throat and tear at my vocal cords, reminding me daily of my vengeful sin.

he was my husband. i was his wife. it was my responsibility to love him and care for him even if he was sick ("through sickness and through health!"). i was sure he didn't want to hurt me. so, i stayed, like the perfect, little wife i was.

i waited patiently, studying the beautiful azaleas that had died on my windowsill; a mimicking that ached. i waited for bao to leave, cringing as his boots hit the hardwood and the front door closed behind him.

"five minutes," i had whispered to myself, "just for prevention."

i wouldn't take the chance that he'd come back and find me not home. oh no, i would have preferred to die than see that wrath unfold before my eyes. i found it funny that the things he'd once loved most about me were now the things bao depised more than anything.

my almond-shaped eyes, my velveteen, midnight hair (even if he was chinese-american, he only spoke of american women now: blonde, curvaceous, and blue-eyed. i could never compare), and most of all, my magic— he was disgusted with me, by me, of me.

and it was for something i couldn't even control. i loved my magic, and there he was making me question if it was my biggest sin of all.

he'd listened in america. he'd complimented my glowing flesh and my slant, obsidian eyes. he'd told me they reminded him of soil, and that i (even after feeling broken and blue due to the wizarding war), was a resilient flower that grew from the earth.

he'd chanted my name as if a gospel had broken out of his chest, almost as if i was a chalice of the most expensive burnt rum. he'd called me the winter solstice; mesmerising and renewing.

our love was a wonderland.

and i never thought i'd break like i had. my eyes (obsidians like he'd loved to call them) were forged from molten lava. they'd solidified in utter destruction. how could something like that break into a million pieces?

i was the magical one. i could break him if i wanted to (he knew that by now)! was that why he'd taken all my power away from me? was that what love was?

it wasn't (right?).