a proposal, of sorts. ✔️

eight

Thin panels of molding line the sides, painted white to contrast the teal of the ceiling. Close enough to the color of Rylan's eyes that she laughed the first time she saw it. "You love me for my eyes," she accused, with a giggle and a kiss accompanying her words.

The corners are adorned with gargoyles, fashioned with white marble to match the molding. They look down at me, menacing instead of the usual kindness. Perhaps because they failed their quest to protect me.

I spend the next days in bed. I can tell Henry and Quint are worried about me, but Trystan's encouraged them to keep their distance. I have no desire to do anything but stare up at my ceiling.

I lay like a corpse, arms crossed in front and hair splayed around my head like a halo. My blanket lays scrunched at my feet, its weight crushing and therefore abandoned.

I feel like a corpse. My heart feels like what I imagine a bullet wound to: angry and loud. The contradiction of a cold pain sinks into my bones like an infection. A vise wrapping around my chest, squeezing and squeezing, making every breath a struggle to complete.

The money wasn't worth this.