DROWN ° tobias eaton

𝒙𝒊𝒗. the second stage of initiation

✧∘ଂ ࿐ ཾ
[ xiv. fourteen ! ]
❛ ᴛʜᴇ sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ sᴛᴀɢᴇ ᴏғ ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ❜

          SHE WAS SCARED OF THE INEVITABLE. Of what might await her on the other side of the white door with those white eyes lingering at the end of the corridor. She felt watched, as if the whole room was observing her. Her chest tightened, suffocated by the walls that enclosed around her, that seemed to slowly inch closer. Tara pushed her head against the wall behind her, relived by the small pain  that reminded her that she was in fact, still alive.

The place next to her on the bench felt empty somehow, as if she was waiting for a stupid comment or a slight nudge to piss her off. Her nose empty without the smell of sandalwood. Tara knew he was long gone by now, somewhere in the shadows of the city, a skinny girl by his side as they struggled to get a full meal into their churning stomachs. His skin was probably already painted with dust and mud, and it struck her, the thought of what might be on his mind — if she ever crossed his mind.

Edward was Factionless now, he had reached a point in society that not even Tara could reach him. And for that — she liked to think — he could only blame himself. (This however, was not entirely true). Therefore, she refused to think about him. Because if there was one thing Tara felt except anxiety, it was betrayal.

She was rarely hurt, or so she would like to think. Physically is a whole other story, but her heart had only been hurt twice before. The first time was when Father had struck her across the face at the age of six, she remembered the way his ring had cut open her skin. Many more blows would follow of different kinds, but that had been the first. The second that was the day when Edward had kissed her all those years ago. (What she failed to realize was that it wasn't Edward who had hurt her. It was Father). Hurting was for the weak, she had learnt that growing up at the Lovelace home. A place that, despite its name, was empty of love. But something had reached into her that day, a small knife to the stomach, a small particle growing inside her, and she felt pathetic. Helpless. Lonely.

Hurt. She felt hurt.

Tiredness hung beneath her eyes, lips dry from a lack of water and her hair was tousled into a braid. She had spent the majority of the previous day hiding from the crowds of Visitation day, and then spent the night thinking of Edward. And the moments when her mind seemed blank of the boy, she laid worrying about the voice, the shadow that had threatened her a few weeks ago. The knife underneath her pillow could be felt through the softness of the sheet. Her hand lingered on the handle, ready to swing at anything that moved.

Tara had moved up in the rankings, just like they had told her not to, and she knew that any day now, she would feel their wrath. Unless she managed to kill him first. She found herself thinking this would be a lot easier if she had known who the person was.

At the end of the white corridor, a voice called to her. It sounded like a whisper, travelling through the thick air like dust — a quiet voice in her head. Tara did not move. She hadn't realised the voice was real.