𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐥𝐞 [𝐭.𝐫.]

two

EMPATHIZING wasn't exactly in Journey's tool-belt of emotions. 

The few that she'd experienced were anger, frustration, fear, and emptiness. She contemplated the idea that she could be a psychopath, but every now and then a flicker of guilt would pry through the high walls she had built to prevent anyone from getting into her mind. The word sociopath then dangled from her tongue, but then the terms all got confusing and she fell asleep on her sofa. 

Due to this lack of empathy, one could imagine her shock when Terra Thomas, a 6th year like herself, flew into Journey's arms sobbing. 

It was a warm Saturday afternoon in September, the day of her outing with Abraxas. Outing. Does that sound right? Perhaps a date, but one never really knew when it came to a Malfoy.

She had woken up in a sour mood. Journey hated mornings. She preferred the peaceful lull of nighttime. The twinkling of the stars hypnotized her, the dark blue hue of the night comforted her, and the silence that coated the air entranced her. 

So, when the sun of September 19th glazed the lake, which allowed its mighty rays to penetrate through her windows, the sleepy smile that once graced her face soon diminished. Her eyes flickered slightly at the bright intrusion but she didn't dare open them just yet. 

Mornings sucked. 

The weight of her eyelids felt so heavy that she swore their impact made her heels dig into the stone floor, creating craters in their wake. The sour dryness left over from from the night clung to the back of her throat, forcing her to swallow harshly.

Journey glanced in the slightly yellowed mirror above the lavatory sink, taking in the nest that formed beneath the roots of her scalp and the redness that occupied the skin around her nose. All considered, she didn't look awful. Sleep deprived, yes, mentally exhausted, also yes, but unattractive, no. Sure, the bones on her clavicle stuck out more than they used to and her cheekbones looked more prominent, but who was really looking?  

They'd already called her a dead woman walking. She'd just decided to feed into her stereotype, rather than deny and starve herself of what so obviously was in front of her. 

Her hand inched towards the soap on the left side of the faucet, thumbprint denting the mellowed block slightly. She observed each twist and loop of the mark, feeling the indents brush her cracked skin. Each thumbprint was different, no two alike, making each person unique. She huffed through the slots in her teeth, mocking the object in front of her. 

Unique my ass. 

Oh how badly she yearned to be unique. Exceptional. Remarkable. Yet, looking at the hollowed out figure of her reflection, she noted she was everything but. A feeling of worthlessness circled her heart. 

Journey lived for very few things:

               1. A hope she'll one day understand love

               2. A chance to be extraordinary

               3. Her father. 

In her mind, two out of the three of those goals were as likely to happen as muggles landing on the moon. That basically left one thing: Trek Williams. A strong-moraled man, Trek abided by the basic principles of your everyday do-gooder; Treat others the way you want to be treated, live authentically, and don't shy away from your fears–face them head on. If there was a problem, he'd solve it immediately rather than letting it sit and collect dust, only to be swept underneath the rug and trapped there 'till the air grew stuffy and it needed to be dealt with. 

Journey understood these principles, and while she didn't uphold them herself, she appreciated the simplicity of her father's lifestyle. One thing always perplexed her when it came to him, though.