Princess

Part 8: The Pain in the Pages

Living happily was not what Princess Peach was doing on that dull, grey, morning. Her spirits were lower than ever as her fate of being wedded to such an evil and cruel beast loomed closer. Two weeks. Time ticked by so slowly now. The days were shorter, the nights consuming the rays of sunlight before she could absorb the 'good' feelings that light always brought. Life was dreary, the fears of what would come if she acted out of line no longer seemed as threatening. Bowser had given up on her, only wanting her mindless, zombified, empty state. Her crown was still hidden, thankfully. She'd never give that up. Peach would fight to the death over her crown. It was all she had left of her past. Other than Sour Peach, but she wasn't something Peach wanted to remember about her past self.

With a heavy sigh, she took out her diary and began to let the words flow, the black ink expressing every emotion that hadn't been drained from her weak and exhausted body.

Day 49

I'm broken. There's nothing left of me here. I'm a shell, that's what I am. I still want to die. Death is the only thing that will release me from this hell. I want to reverse time. Back to the days of sunshine and reading in the little rooms scattered about the castle. Back to the days of fond kisses on the nose and whispered confessions of love. Back to the days that weren't cold and dark. Back to the days where I wasn't feeling like an alien amongst the broken souls that used to be my citizens. Back to the days when Sour Peach was gone. 

I miss the way it used to be. I wish I could have somehow prevented this. What did I do wrong? I fucked up somewhere, but where? Why is all I can think of. Just the question 'Why?'. I don't know how to express my feelings. But at the same time, I do know how to express them. I can explain them in my head but I can't write out what I'm feeling. My head is a mess. Emotions, thoughts, hopes, dreams, aspirations, inspirations, ideas, they're all cluttering up my mind. 

Mario.

Mario is the only thing I want.

But I can't have him. 

I just want to visit his grave and just tell myself that he's gone, to seal the deal with whatever fucking god has him. I wish he had a proper grave. But wishes never come true. They never have and never will. If only...

That tender moment of pure love is what's making me smile as I write this. It's a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. I love him, I still do. I'll never let go. I can't let go. Memories of him are treasured. He'll forever be a part of me. His warm laugh still rings in my ears from time to time. Sometimes I hug myself and pretend it's him. Sometimes I believe it's him. But of course, it isn't. The cold, harsh, reality hits me and I'm back to where I was. Hugging myself, crying, grief-struck. He's dead and I'm trying to believe he isn't. 

These pages, they're keeping me sane. If anyone found this...god knows what would happen. I'd be deemed crazy. Maybe I am crazy. Who knows. Not me. Everything is crazy. My life went from happy to sad in seconds, it's all gone nuts. At least Mario doesn't have to suffer anymore. Or maybe he does. I'm not dead yet, I don't know what it's like. I wish I did know. 

I'm going to go overthink some more now. Maybe this will be my last entry, who knows? Not me.

I hope it is, I can't take this much longer.

-Peach

She signed off her entry and closed the diary, feeling a small portion of the weight lifting off her shoulders. At least she was getting some emotional baggage off her chest. At least something had been achieved out of her misery. The lock clicked and she turned to face the creaking open door.

"Princess?" Kamek said, entering her room, a silver tray balanced on one hand as he held his walking stick/wand in the other. 

"Yes?" Peach wearily said, her voice sounding as drained as she felt. Feebly attempting to form a smile, the corners of her mouth would not lift, staying as an exhausted grimace.

"I have brought you your dinner, Ma'am," the ancient sorcerer said, delicately setting the tray down on her dressing table before leaving the room and her alone once more.

"Thank you," she murmured, picking up the knife and fork. A lightbulb lit up inside her head. The gleaming metal suddenly looked much more appealing than the plate's contents. 

It was just a butter knife but surely it would do some damage. After all, anything can be a weapon if you try hard enough. She raised the knife, a sense of relaxation and peace washing over her. She had a chance to escape. Mario beckoned to her from beyond the light's reach. He wanted her to join him. She wanted to join him. Nothing was stopping her from going to him. Her breath hitched in her chest as she hacked into her arm. As her tool of choice was quite blunt, it was proving difficult to cause the damage she needed it to cause. 

Eventually, after much elbow grease and hacking away at her now marred and scratched skin, the rivers of red began flowing down her arm. The sensation felt good. She felt no pain, the buzzing of emotions in her head drowning out every other sense. Mario reached out to her, his warm smile guiding her to him but as their hands touched, she snapped back into reality. She shivered as her eyes wandering over the messy gash across her forearm. The illusion had shattered and the pain was kicking in. She looked around the room, wondering what she could do to cover the wound. Not much. Her en-suite wasn't equipped with medical supplies, there was simply no need for them, it was meant to be completely safe after all. She considered calling for Kamek but hesitated in doing so. He could tell Bowser and get her locked up with the 'crazies'. She'd fit right in if she was as mad as she was beginning to think she was. 

The blood continued running down her arm and dripping onto the floor. She hoped it wouldn't stain. The lightheadedness had begun and the room began to swirl at the corners of her vision. Her heart was pounding now. Was she going to die like this? Sure, she wanted to be taken but, here? Her hands found a discarded shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wound to stem the flow. She would die nobly, like her ancestors. If she was going to commit suicide, she'd do it in a way that seemed right. Something that suited her. Pain wasn't how she wanted to leave. Her death would be clean, soft even. Sleeping pills, if she could somehow find them, would probably be the thing she'd use to exit. Perhaps hanging, or suffocation. Leaving a mess was unlike her. She didn't want to overdramatize her death and traumatize the unfortunate soul who was unlucky enough to find her. 

A long, thoughtful, sigh escaped her. Life was difficult, decisions were difficult, thoughts were difficult. Everything was difficult now.

She picked up the pen, took out the diary, and began to scrawl the demons that haunted her thoughts down onto the page, her inner pain fuelling the movement of her hand as her feelings took over her mind once again.