✓ | Hushed Whispers ⋆ Will Herondale [2]

CHAPTER THREE: UNDESERVING

◤But we didn't deserve to be treated that way. We didn't do anything to make them believe we weren't good enough. We were children, for God's sake! What can a child do to make his or her parent turn a blind eye on them? How could we not be good enough? We did nothing but study and train hard in order to make them proud. Is that not good enough?◢

⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼

CHAPTER THREE: UNDESERVING

THE Wayland girl's mind failed to rest that night as it continued painting pictures of the world that was aquiver long after her eyes had closed. The scenes were blurry, one replacing the other in a matter of seconds, if not less. The imagined world of Marie's mind kept on shaking, its edges catching on burning flames and slowly, but surely disappearing.

She couldn't distinguish up from down, left from right, right from wrong. She couldn't tell whether she was dreaming or if the scenery she kept on seeing was real. She wasn't sure if she were breathing at all under the overwhelming pressure of the contrasted universe which consisted of cold lights and endless, welcoming darkness.

Marie felt claustrophobic as the merciless hands of her dreams kept on choking her and tearing her apart, piece by piece. It would have been a blatant lie if she attempted denying the unbearable pain that was rising in her chest. It would have been a blatant and rather bold lie if she even dared say that she hadn't begged all the supernatural forces to have mercy on her poor soul as shameless tears escaped the corners of her tightly squeezed eyes. Even her nails tried assisting in waking the girl up as they dug deeply into the weak flesh of her palms. They caused damage, cracking the surface of Marie's pale skin open in the form of deep ruptures and letting her blood run as freely as river Thames. But the girl was still trapped in her own nightmare, without hope of ever glancing at the real world again.

A scream, deep and raw, built up in her throat as an image of an aristocratic blonde woman glided in front of a dirty white house embroidered with the threads of endless green ivy. Her locks danced effortlessly across her lower back, loosely wrapping themselves around her body.

Marie tried glancing at the woman's face, recognizing her, but nothing came to the girl. Instead of being greeted by the woman's eyes or curving lips - even if that were a glare or a flat-lined smile - there was no facial expression. The blonde angel possessed no eyes, nose or mouth. Her face was simply - blank, leaving the woman stripped of her own identity.

And then, shadows fell and took everything away from Marie. There was a moment of pure silence, one where Marie bathed in the ocean of darkness while trying to calm herself down and breathe slowly, before everything shattered on her.

It was sweet and smooth as pieces of glass while it teared Marie apart; it opened the doors to a world which consisted of million broken pieces. Her own home. That was where she belonged; in a world where music was still being sang, but the pieces that produced it were too thickly intertwined to make out any shape or line.

They were not meant to be connected, but were better off left broken. As they were now.

It wasn't a feeling that was supposed to be described with words. It was something that one had to experience in order to understand it. That was why Marie didn't bother explaining anything to Gabriel when he woke her up from her horrendous slumber.