halcyon_houses

Who: Anastasiya and Diarmad
Where: Their Suite
When: Saturday Night after Rebecca's post
What: God these kids are stubborn

More than a week had passed, and still he remained. Nearly two weeks. His only movement had been to his classes, and then he was right back to his self appointed station.

And Diarmad called Anastasiya stubborn.

How many times had she gone to the door, thinking to open it, to speak to him, to plead with him, to convince him as she’d failed to do already. He was free, as free as he could be. No, Asya couldn’t offer him that, but she gave what she could. Not good enough, but there was nothing more to do. Nothing short of ending both of their lives. And that he wouldn’t allow either. Of course, neither would she. She didn’t want to die, didn’t want Diarmad to die, and thought that perhaps, he wouldn’t want her dead either.

But Asya never knew what of what he said and did was duty, and what might be more.

She’d thought… perhaps… after all, it had seemed so. But she’d been wrong, hadn’t she? Like a servant girl broken and weeping at his feet. She had, in that moment, given her all for him, left herself completely bare. Nothing. There was nothing from him.

And it was Anastasiya that so many called Icy.

It was servants that spoke to him, every few hours, and reported back to their mistress. Always the same word. No Mistress, he’ll not relinquish his post. Short of causing a scene in the hallway, which she felt his continued presence their did regardless, Asya was at a loss in what to do. There was one who’s opinion she always valued in such tough situations, but he was currently standing outside her door like, well… like she was a princess and he her guard.

No, the irony was not at all lost on her. If irony was even the right word. Whatever it was… Asya was at a loss. Not to mention she felt humiliated, doubly so, and a sickness in the pit of her stomach that had begun in Germany and begun to fester the night of her return. That Diarmad had not slept was obvious to her, mostly because she had not either. Not one day or night since then, though, in the beginning she had tried. Neither had she fed. Her time anymore was spent gazing at the door as though she could see him through it. The problem was, no matter how much she wanted to push him away, and make him go away… she didn’t at all want him to. She wanted him right there by her side. Not as servant. As Diarmad.

Maybe if she’d never admitted it it would be less painful. Yes. She was certain it would be less painful. Before she’d prostrated herself she at least had her pride. Now she didn’t even have that. She had wealth, opulence, anything of value she could desire right at her command. But none of that mattered did it? These things she had always had. These things did nothing to fill the gaping hole in her heart. A hole more obvious now than ever before.

Work actually gave her chance to forget herself for a few hours a day. Forget herself. A strange concept, but the only way of keeping her sanity. For those few hours, the pain felt to be more of a dull throb then a piercing ache. Though a frantic journal entry from Rebecca had brought back a surge of emotion. Anger.

Her first thought was to find the culprit and give them a bit of pain of their own. And those who taunted Rebecca as well, Asya wished to see them suffer as well. She did neither… yet. The first thing she did was to go to her door. She hesitated but a moment before she opened it. “Your niece needs you.” She said. “Someone has attacked her.”

| who. | Annabella Laputa | what. | Anya has a major breakdown. | when. | After her classes | where. | Her dorm room

Subconsciously, she was fading. The remnants of an innocent, untouched child deteriorating into broke pieces. Pieces she swept clean from the surface, leaving no evidence of the casualty. Her insides were soft and withered, malformed to tiny creases of perpetual decomposition. She could curl into a ball tightly, arms writhed around her abdomen to prevent herself from breaking, but it wouldn't ease her anguish enough. As a picture, framed in silver, was cradled in her delicate hands, she regretted ever thieving the photograph from home. Surely, this was unhealthy. She just didn't want to forget her. She didn't want to forget her impeccable complexion, barely marred from indications of old age. She didn't want to forget her glorious blonde mane and the emerald pigment of her irises, that she had gratefully inherited. Her father said she looked just like her, but Anya never agreed. Her mother was much more beautiful, matured and wreaking of perfection. Anya was flawed from appearance to personality. She never thought herself as unattractive, but she never thought herself as beautiful either. The picture had captured her mother's beautiful perfectly, just how she would of looked if she was still present. Tears streamed down her cheeks which irritated her. All those years ago, when she was escorted to the morgue, forced to identify the body she could wield herself a single tear. And here, years later, she was whimpering like a baby. Why couldn't she show grief then? Why now, when she obviously had plenty of time to console herself? She thought back to her vehement conversation with her father—before she fled to Halcyon. She's never coming back. She called him pathetic for his unveiled anguish, but perhaps she was far more wreckless then he was. She was one wave from a ship wreck, before she was reeled out to sea, lost to the depths of the ocean. Woe solved nothing. She knew this. But yet here she was on the bottom of her bed, whimpering uncontrollably. Though an audience wasn't at her dismay, she loathed the emotion that spelt from her unexpectedly. She bit her bottom lip, threatening to break the fragile layer of skin, but it worsened her episode. She felt so much like her father, crying in the bedroom over the deceased of a loved one. Her reasons had been different though. True, the death of her mother provoked the tears, but it was never allow them to ignite the moment she died. Not at the morgue. Not at the funeral. Instead, alternatives were taken into action, and she suddenly understood why her father issued a therapist for her. There was something wrong with her—besides the obvious.

Her heartache wouldn't replenish, demanding for another treatment. She slammed the picture to the ground, the frame shattering into a handful of pieces. Idly, she studied the asymmetrical shards that shaped. Leisurely slipping off the edge of the bed, she collapsed to her knees and hands. Her palms pressed roughly against the shards, while painful, she had become completely numb to it. She anchored herself up, so her hands were no long pinned to the floor, and her back sloped against the edge of her bed. Finicky, she selected one of the glass shards that promised the greatest damage, due to it's large and sharp edges. Gliding the glass across her left bicep, she applied adequate pressure to break the skin and draw blood. The pain was highly tolerable, that she had to stare at her handiwork to confirm wether she actually cut herself. She cut deeper, feeling a slight sting, but still not enough to satisfy herself. It seemed all pointless now. She was physically and mentally too numb to inflict any real damage. She threw the shard back in the pile, not caring about the stain it would embed in the carpet. She despised how incredibly useless she had become. If pain was out of control, what else was there? Even now, with a bit of comfort that she isn't as big of a freak that she thought she had been, it still wasn't enough. Acceptance was nice, but it didn't hold a candle to her other problems. Too numb to move, and too anxious to remain still, she settled for rocking. Her lips parted, as if she had something audible to announce to herself, but the words never spilled from her chaffed lips. She balled her hands into tight fists, veins across her skin becoming more prominent, as she groaned.
( my skin should crack and peel )