Dahlia Wellburg hates her misery as much as she loves it. She sees herself as a stone: ordinary and unwanted. Yet, they know her to be a rose: soft, but with thorns.
. . .
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"I am not actually tired, but numb and heavy, and can't find the right words." - Franz Kafka . . . Dahlia
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I, as calmly as I could, stood in front of the mirror in the washroom and looked at myself.
I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering. Things were different than what they used to be. They had changed all of it. The walls were grey, instead of a deep color of red. A black bathtub was inserted into the ground, instead of a white one pushed into the corner - never used. Everything looked expensive. Everything looked cold. Everything was different.
I asked about the washroom instantly as I entered the house. Yes, that must be weird for them. But the last thing I wanted was for them to witness a breakdown.
The breakdown didn't come, thankfully. I just needed a few deep breaths.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in-
"Dahlia, are you okay?"
"Fine!" I said back to Andros or Hedeon, gripping the counter. "Perfectly fine," I repeated with a softer, more believable tone, wiping tears from under my eyes. "I'll be out in a minute."
"Take your time."
I opened my handbag and pulled out a few wipes, wiping my smudged mascara away. It also took away a bit of my concealer, exposing the redness under my eyes.
I sighed. I looked so bad. I did wear a lot of makeup. I had started wearing it because I adored expressing myself with dramatic eyeshadows.
But now, it was, like everything else, about hiding myself. I needed to have a layer of protection over every part of me. No one could see me bare. No one could touch me bare.
I redid everything within minutes, not registering everything. I did this every day
I walked out, ready to leave the house. There was no use being here, now. I somehow just needed to let this house die in my heart, and now it had.
Andros or Hedeon was leaning against the wall across the washroom, his arms folded against his chest. His tattoos were a lot different than Elliot, whichever one I had seen that day. But even in the dark hallway, I could see one similar tattoo.
Pirate ship.
My eyes fell on the five scars on his neck. Vertical. Not clean, at all. I looked into his eyes. "Hey."
"Hey, Dahlia." He stepped forward, green eyes gentle. Andros?
