I snort when I think about how eternity on this planet once felt smothering, as if too much time were just as bad as not having enough. Now I know that was yet another lie I told myself.
Before, I would look into the future, knowing the vast, endless expanse of time before me is simply waiting for memories, and that feeling is nothing like knowing I have too few days left.
I hide my condition from the vampires. Not because I am afraid they will be angry at my lies or because I am ashamed of the link formed between the witches and me, but because there is no way to explain how it feels to know you should have your whole life ahead of you while waiting for your internal fire to be extinguished by forces utterly out of your control.
I pick at my cuticle, pulling the skin until I bleed. I wince as a surge of pain rushes over me.
When my mother cursed me by linking our souls, she damned my emotions and muted my senses. But my ability to feel pain and fear has never been so sharp.
I dab my tongue against my fingernail, letting the blood drip into my mouth. When it stops bleeding, I pull down the sleeves of my sweater and slide my thumb through the makeshift holes I cut near the bottom hem.
I started altering my tops by cutting thumb-holes into my long-sleeve T-shirts and sweaters after I thoughtlessly pushed up my sleeves one afternoon while researching my condition with Holland. Luckily, he was invested in the book he was reading and did not notice the veins that have threaded their way through my entire body.
My skin is coated with them now. They are scattered along every curve like tattoos, and they feel just as permanent.
Holland never knew he was one blink away from realizing how desperate my situation has become. And just like with Jasik, I do not want him to know. I am dooming myself to mourn my life in silence, accepting my fate as one of the few things I chose.
Terrified Holland might find out the truth because I carelessly pushed up my sleeves, I cut up my clothes, ensuring to never again make that mistake.
Chapter Two
I stare at him just over the top of the leather-bound book I have been thumbing through for the last hour—to no avail. Lately, I do not have the luxury of reading for pleasure. Instead, I am doomed to skim these musty pages until something sticks out as a feasible option.
Streams of words formed by some archaic language no one speaks anymore loop endlessly in my mind, and I wonder if I have been wrong all this time. Maybe this—the inability to comprehend my terminal fate—is hell.
In these moments, when the darkness is heavy on my heart, and it is so loud, doubt becomes all I can hear, I like to believe that death offers peace life can never grant me. That thought crosses my mind now, and something settles over me. It feels…weighty and formidable, embracing me until I submit to it.
I shake away those dark thoughts, that ominous feeling. Every day, I struggle to remain hopeful and optimistic that Holland is both smart enough and strong enough to fix me. I am constantly combating my desire to accept my fate and my need to fight it.
In these times of severe doubt, when I just want to give up and enjoy what little time I have left, I forget who I am. I must never forget that I am a fighter. I am a warrior. I am strong enough to withstand any fate, even one brought on by my doing. Sometimes, I bring myself back to reality, but other times, my words are not enough to keep me sane, happy. It is a daily struggle, a constant teeter of emotional whiplash. And I am getting tired of it.
I watch as Holland makes his way through piles of research books long before I finish even one. I wonder if he knows he is trying harder than me. Can he tell I am slowly losing hope? Is it obvious to everyone in this house?
Holland scrunches his face at something he is reading, and I squint, trying to see him more clearly. Ever since I cast the spell, damning my body to live out a mortal life, my vision has worsened. Not only do I not have heightened senses, but I barely have basic vision at this point.
I do not understand how some people open their eyes and simply cannot see. Requiring contact lenses or glasses just to notice your surroundings is a form of cruel and unusual punishment.
Holland groans, mumbling under his breath. He twists in his seat and scribbles something on the notepad beside him. He presses too hard, and the pencil tip snaps. He curses and throws his writing utensil on the floor. It smacks against the hardwood, bouncing several times before it slides to a stop at the other side of the room. It seems my situation is taking a toll on everyone.
Holland peers at me, his brown eyes wide, as if he is embarrassed I witnessed his breakdown. I smile, hoping it seems genuine and speaks volumes to our situation. I want to pull him into a hug and tell him it is okay. We all have these moments. If only he knew how emotionally unstable I am right now, he would not feel so awkward. He would laugh it off, pick up his broken pencil, and start over. I envy him in this moment. My situation is not as easily remedied.
Holland’s lids are heavy. Dark circles under his eyes are overemphasized by his pale skin. He apologizes for his outburst and runs a hand through his already-sloppy hair. His fingers get tangled in the mess, so he leaves it in a heap atop his head and drops his arm to his side. He thumbs the edge of the sofa awkwardly, peering up to meet my gaze.
I smile at him, conveying with my eyes that it is okay. I wish he did not take this so seriously. Sure, I want to find a way to sever this link as much as he does, but I hate that Holland is sacrificing his own health to save me.
Everyone is surrendering their lives and their time to this cause—except for me. I am deemed too weak to assist. So I just sit here with my books and my doubt, sinking further into the quicksand, the barren abyss my world has become. As they walk around me, frantically trying to find a magical situation to break a curse gone wrong, no one even notices that I am disappearing.
Soon, I fear I will be rooted so deeply, with the sand all around, I will not be able to breathe. I worry no one will see, no one will notice. I will just be…gone. And they will still be searching for a cure.
I continue to smile at Holland, and he returns the gesture, laughing off his tantrum all while these thoughts rush through my mind. My mouth mute, my tongue a useless husk, Holland never notices.
And I sink a little deeper.
Breaking my gaze, Holland snaps the book shut, and a plume of dust erupts in the air. He does not seem to notice that either. He tosses the tome on the open seat beside him and walks across the room to pick up the pencil. After wiping it off, he returns to the couch, never meeting my gaze.
He rarely looks at me now. Only when he needs certain information will he give me his full attention. I think he fears he will not discover a cure, a way to cut the link once and for all, and he does not want me to see that realization in his eyes. So he never meets mine anymore.
Ever since I returned home, the vampires have acted different. They worry. I catch them staring when they think I do not notice, and I try not to let it bother me. But it does. They all look at me the same way—like I am a victim.
And I guess I am now. This is a role I have never played, and to be honest, I hate it. I hate that I am no longer comfortable in my own skin. I hate that I must rely on everyone else just to survive the night. I cannot leave the manor, because danger lurks around every corner in Darkhaven, from covens of witches who hate me enough to damn themselves to rogue vampires intent on annihilating the entire population. Even tripping over my own feet can end in disaster.