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Plant your curse under my skin ━━━━
LYRA WAS ONCE TOLD THAT EVEN IF THE MEMORIES FADE AWAY, THE SCARS NEVER DO.
And Lyra can assure you that whoever told her that is undoubtedly rotting and turning in hell for their lies. Because the memories don't fade away either. Thus, Lyra Reed finds herself in a mirror room of memories that resembles the likes of a blood bath more than peaceful reminiscence. And in this very moment, there is only one amongst a million that calls to her. That draws her in like a prey to its hunter, like a victim to its killer. Leaving its mark on spoiled skin and coercing her into never forgetting where it all began. Carving onto her brain the names of the people it started with. And, presumably, would also end with. In that way, it would be almost impossible (because nothing is out of Lyra's reach) for her to ever forget or to ever let go—even if she never considered the thought in the first place. An insurance policy, just so that there could be no escape from a place from a home from people she didn't ever want to leave to begin with.
Lyra Reed vividly remembers the night Albert Moore's world crashed into her own. She remembers it as if it had been just yesterday, the memories playing on soft bedsheets absorbing today's morning sun. She remembers the suit he was clad in, the way he wore his hair. The sound of his voice, his laugh. Every word he spoke to her, truth dripping from lips coated in lies. Lyra Reed remembers him now more clearly than ever.
She remembers him even if she can't seem to forget him. Because when Lyra looks to her side, Albert is right there—like he has always been, like he will always be. Shame certainly isn't made for him as his daunting laugh fills the space they sit in, surrounded by their enemies. She sees him for who he is, just as she had seen him all those years ago. A presence you can't dismiss, a presence you can't help but take notice of. With a lit cigarette between steady fingers that have committed the devil's calling, that have sinned beyond salvation. A cloud of smoke encircles him like a (false) halo that hides vice behind a deceivingly charming smile. But Albert Moore is no God. He's far from ever being one—(because if he were, then Lyra would just have to kill him)—and even further from ever pretending to be one. Not even the night he met Lyra Reed. In all his dashing cruelty and stone, he is honest and bold irrespective of his (lack of) morals and ethics. In his eyes, this world has no place for good men, so why bother trying if you're ultimately setting yourself up for failure. And for that reason, Alby is the first person Lyra has never lied to.
Back then, she had been younger. Although witty, intelligent and clever—not wise enough. Albeit, wise enough to refuse drinks from strangers. Or wise enough to not take a sip from a glass left unattended. But not wise enough to avoid or ignore everything about Alby's assertive presence and striking smile. About the way cunning eyes had looked at her and only at her right after he'd pushed a guy over the bar, inches away from where she sat. Are you alright, he had asked with disheveled hair. And with sarcasm she'd only harbored with age, she'd replied with yes, why wouldn't I be, I'm not the one over the counter. Lyra Reed: wise, but not wise enough, didn't take Albert's lack of apology replaced with an ironic comment instead as blatant disrespect and disregard. Lyra Reed: wise, but not wise enough, didn't feel alarm when she'd truthfully told him of her age and he had made no effort in walking away. Granted, back then, the nature of their relationship was purely platonic. His intentions were strictly professional and nowhere near romantic.
