Persephone's Point of View
♕︎ ♕︎ ♕︎
Headmaster Diana rose from her chair with a grace so deliberate it bordered on intimidating. Every movement she made carried the weight of someone used to commanding attention, someone who didn't have to speak loudly to be heard. Her steps were steady, the soft sound of her heels tapping against the polished floor filling the otherwise quiet room. Yet, beneath her poised demeanor, there was an urgency in her stride that she couldn't entirely mask, a faint crack in her polished exterior. She approached me slowly, crouching down until she was eye-level with me, her sharp features softening as she tilted her head slightly.
Her hand, cool and steady, reached out to gently lift my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze. It wasn't a gesture of dominance or authority—it was maternal, almost unbearably so, like she was peeling back the layers of my defenses with a tenderness I hadn't asked for. Her dark eyes, filled with something that looked a lot like pity, scanned my face as if searching for cracks in the armor I'd spent years perfecting.
"You don't need to fake it, dear," she said, her voice low and soothing, yet firm enough that I couldn't dismiss it. There was no judgment in her tone, only a quiet insistence that made it difficult to look away. "You can just ignore them. It's okay to leave when they press you on matters that trigger you. Do you remember what we told you?"
The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow, but I forced myself to nod, even as her words threatened to unravel me. My voice, when it finally came, sounded foreign and distant, as though it belonged to someone else. "That I should take care of my mental health before dealing with all this," I recited, the words hollow and bitter in my mouth. The phrase was so clinical, so detached from the reality of what I was going through, that it felt almost laughable. Mental health? How was I supposed to care about something so intangible when everything around me felt so relentlessly suffocating?
"And that I can stay away from any kind of trigger that appears in my way," I added, the chill in my tone betraying the resentment bubbling beneath the surface. It wasn't directed at Diana, not entirely—it was aimed at the universe, at the impossible expectations, at the unbearable weight of everything that had been piled on my shoulders.
Samuel's presence at my side was a quiet but reassuring constant, his towering frame a stark contrast to the delicate tension in the room. He had a way of grounding me without saying much, his steady gaze and calm demeanor like an anchor in the chaos. When he finally stepped closer, his movements were slow, deliberate, as if he was giving me space to breathe.
When he reached us, his hand—rough and calloused from years of hard work—settled gently on my hair. The motion was so tender, so protective, that it caught me off guard. My chest tightened, not with fear, but with something uncomfortably close to gratitude. "No kid should go through what you did, sweetheart," he said softly, his deep voice carrying a weight that made my throat tighten even further. "And those who haven't experienced the same will never truly understand you. Not fully. It's okay to be angry. It's okay to want revenge. We would feel the same if we were in your position."
Diana's expression darkened, her composed demeanor slipping for just a moment as she hissed, "Especially after Draki Mountain." Her voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. The name alone seemed to hang in the room, heavy and oppressive, a reminder of everything I was trying so hard to forget.
Draki Mountain.
The words were enough to send a shiver crawling up my spine, cold and relentless, like the memory itself was reaching out to drag me back. The room around me seemed to blur, the edges of reality dissolving as the past surged forward with brutal clarity. It wasn't just a memory—it was a sensory assault, a flood of fragmented images and emotions that left me gasping for air.
I shot to my feet so abruptly that the chair beneath me scraped loudly against the floor, the sharp sound cutting through the haze in my mind. My body moved on instinct, driven by the need to escape, to put as much distance as possible between myself and the weight of those memories. "I... Bathroom," I managed to choke out, the words barely audible over the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears.
Samuel's voice was calm, steady, as though he'd anticipated this reaction. "Go, sweetheart," he said gently, his tone laced with understanding.
Diana added quickly, her voice firm but kind, "Eat something later. Don't stay with an empty stomach." The simplicity of her words shouldn't have meant as much as they did, but in that moment, they felt like a lifeline—a reminder that I wasn't completely alone in this.
I didn't stop to respond. With a flick of my wrist, I summoned a portal, its swirling light offering an escape from the suffocating weight of the room. The transition was seamless, the world around me dissolving into a blur of light and color before I stepped through and emerged in the sterile confines of a bathroom.
The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, their harsh glow reflecting off the polished tiles. The space was pristine, almost unnervingly so, the stark cleanliness a sharp contrast to the chaos inside me. My knees hit the cold tiles as I collapsed in front of the toilet, my body shaking with the force of my emotions.
One hand gripped the edge of the porcelain seat, its smooth surface grounding me as I leaned forward. The other gathered my long, root-braided hair, clutching it tightly to keep it out of the way as my stomach churned violently. The music filtering through the bathroom speakers barely registered at first, the faint notes of My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark by Fall Out Boy seeming almost surreal against the backdrop of my spiraling thoughts.
As the lyrics grew louder, the irony of the song wasn't lost on me. "Light 'em up, up, up, I'm on fire..." The words felt like a cruel joke, a mockery of the storm raging inside me. My body convulsed, rejecting every bite of food I'd forced down in the past three days. It felt endless, like I was purging more than just the physical—like I was trying to rid myself of the memories, the guilt, the unbearable weight of it all.
The faint murmur of voices reached my ears, pulling me back to the present just enough to realize I wasn't alone. There were others in the bathroom, their figures vague and unimportant at the edge of my awareness. I could hear the shuffle of their movements, the quiet clink of makeup brushes against countertops, the soft hum of conversation. But they felt like ghosts—insignificant compared to the tidal wave of emotion threatening to drown me.
The past refused to loosen its grip on me. Nearly five years had passed, but the memories of that day were as vivid as ever, etched into my mind like scars that refused to fade. I could feel it all—the suffocating heat, the helplessness, the overwhelming sense of loss.
And then there was the tattoo. The mark burned against my skin, a phantom pain that refused to be ignored. It wasn't just a symbol—it was a brand, a constant reminder of everything I'd lost, everything I'd endured. I pressed my forehead against the cool edge of the toilet bowl, my breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps.
No amount of fire could cleanse me. No amount of time could dull the ache that lingered in my chest, the simmering anger that threatened to consume me at every turn. I was burning—burning from the inside out—and no one could extinguish the flames.