𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈 : 𝐀 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐃𝐢𝐞 𝐈𝐧

After Sasha's birthday, from which you were unceremoniously uninvited, Niccolo sequestered you upstairs with no hope of parole. He did, however, grant visitation rights. Your guardian made all sorts of stops after visiting the graveyard because a different person was scheduled to entertain you each day until you fully recuperated.

Niccolo did not inform you of whatever took place at Sasha's grave, and resentment of his secretiveness brewed stronger within you as you dreamlessly slept.

The following day started with Dr. Yeager and Mr. Arlert arriving at your room at dawn with honeyed water and morphine. Mr. Arlert sat beside your bed after all your hopes for a happy future had been devastated and washed away in hot rain. His eyes held firm on your blankets while you remained entirely still with your forearm extended for Dr. Yeager to administer your injection.

You didn't exchange any looks with the doctor. He gave you your medicine, asked how you were feeling, and departed for work–promising to see you later that night for another dose.

Once Dr. Yeager left, Mr. Arlert cracked open his book and read aloud from where he had left off the day before.

"Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley," Mr. Arlert began the second day in your cell. "They attacked him in various ways—with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises..."

You were already bored.

No, bored wasn't the right word.

You were numb.

The spasms of pain rippled through your neck with each tiny movement while you waited for the medicine to take. It was all you felt—no sadness or anger—only little pains.

For as awful as it was, your trachea was the only thing that reminded you that you were still alive. You were banned from seeing your best friend and Mr. Kirstein while bound to your bed with the windows latched. You were only permitted to breathe fresh air a few times a day when Mr. Arlert or Niccolo helped you to the outhouse. As soon as that was over, you were locked away as quickly as you had been freed.

And when that pain was blanketed under the warm cover of morphine's casted quilt, you longed for any minor sensation. A brush of the hair. A pass of a hand. Anything to force blood from your heart.

What kind of life was this? Is this what you stuck around for?

Mr. Arlert kept reading—unaware that you stopped listening as soon as he started. He would only know if he had the bravery to peer at your disengaged expression, but he kept his eyes glued to the words.

"He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long," Mr. Arlert read as he closed the book. "Alright! That brings us to chapter seven. Seems as good a place to pause as any. Now, what would you like to do? We could draw. Would you like that?" Mr. Arlert asked, his eyes sticking to his knees.

You didn't answer. Both because you couldn't without opening your response booklet and because you didn't care. You lacked the author's falsified enthusiasm.

"Or we could write poetry? Sometimes, writing can lift the spirits when they drift low."

Mr. Arlert reached to tap the little black book resting in your lap. You traced your finger along the dark leather, suddenly feeling less numb at the thought of who gifted it to you. The relief lasted only a few seconds because your lungs refilled with lead far too quickly for your liking. You carefully pulled out the pencil tucked in the spine and jotted down a note.