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C H A P T E R T W O
To indulge in beauty
Episode 001 (Romance Dawn )
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TYCHE'S ONLY SWEETHEART was that which held inherent beauty.
Woken early by liquid gold, she found herself rooted to another reality, lost in fields of chrysanthemums and carnations. Her eyes, still dull with the lull of dreamless sleep, ran over the rusty crevices of the dinghy she had found herself spending the night in, discarded by the Marines for its bad state — yet her mind was lost in a memory that made a divine vision develop around her.
Flowers, like paintbrushes, were dipped red and she came at peace with the colour for however long she decided to wander. It was the colour of her childhood. She doubted 'is it paint or blood?' but got lost in a maze of it nonetheless, ignoring her oblivion for the absolution of the ignorant. She could never forget — she never did — but she could let it hunt her in a second plane, in the shadows of nature, while she took pleasure in basking in the clean sunlight falling upon petals.
Her sweetheart was that list of the most beautiful of things: cream light on her windowsill, the itch of tall grass, the giggles of summer, the memory of a smile and realising what could have been, lovestruck, lovelorn, lovesick.
However, as much as she relished in such comfort, she would never forget all that had happened. A sharp breath made the flowers melt into carmine puddles that seeped into the dirty wood of the boat and into the untimely waves of her antithesis below, the shapes of Shells Town taking form around her.
Forgetting was a luxury she couldn't partake in, as such was the first commandment of sinners. Tyche would never forget the ghosts in her lungs, and the yells in her mouth. The skeletons in her closet would only become bigger, in order to pour out of it when she walked past and pry at her legs in another attempt at pulling her back into Hell. She woke up screaming time and time again, and never forgot as her knees bled and her hands clutched at the crevices of salvation.
All her grief, bottled up, stored away in twilight corners, yelled the same thing — this isn't how it's supposed to be. The world — expectations, beliefs, life — grabbed her throat and cut her wailing. This is how it is.
So, Tyche picked herself up from the bed of prophetic petals and handed her luck to the Fates once again with a superstitious prayer falling from her lips, chanting under her breath the meagre plan to follow with hope for predestination to coincide with it.
Beauty was temporal, so why would she get attached to it? The desire for redemption occupied the place that her sweetheart left behind.
She stretched her arms and, in that midnight silence she carried with her in every step, Tyche started walking. She prompted herself to carry on; she would avenge that which ought to be, she promised in tranquil whispers — but were those her fingers crossed behind her back? (Cynicism was a side-effect she had yet to leave behind, so she couldn't help but think that all the sacrifice might not be worth it).
