"𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝; 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝. 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐨𝐮𝐬."
"Haven't I given enough? Must I sacrifice myself upon the altar of man's p...
So long I endure, no longer; and laugh not again, neither weep. For there is no God found stronger than death; and death is a sleep.
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It is part of the grand scheme of things to follow the rhythm of the days unquestioningly. The sand-sifting feeling of time blurring together for the greater good of some ambiguous purpose that one cannot know nor divulge. You are only a cog, the universe says, play your part and all will be revealed in the end. Why? is the question one isn't allowed to ask. Why, Aurora wanted to shout, am I meant to stand and endure this, like a pawn on some greater being's chessboard? Why does it feel like I have no part in this, no weight?
But she wasn't meant to question, because even if she did there was no one to provide an answer. It's alright not to be okay, he had said, but it wasn't. It wasn't. Not when it felt like her grip on reality was slipping day by day, as though she was slowly slipping from her skin and vaporizing into the air, losing hold of all muscle and bone, losing all strength.
Time flew without her control. It soared above her with wings made of ivory and dust, sprinkling minutes and seconds over her skin, stealing breaths and blinks and moments and giving only fleeting interludes of memory.
Time found Aurora the Creature with a shotgun and three bullets in the magazine, ready to be shot.
Bam – the Christmas party.
Bam – the blazing night.
Bam – the near death.
If she went back in time – if time had the grace to stop for her and open another door, there you go miss, enjoy your flight, do come again – would she have changed anything?
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The clock struck twelve. The sky began to drizzle. The statue of the avenging angel wept and Fafnir Hawkins clutched her necklace and knelt before it, her eyes far-seeing and blank. Vines slithered through the sculptures and curled around her ankles, digging thorns into her pale, milky skin.
"Don't linger, big brother," her soft voice echoed through the ghostly garden.
Demetrius Hawkins stepped out of the maze clad in all of his regal splendour, his tar-black wings brushing against the dewy grass. "I did not wish to disturb you,"
