Persephone's Point of View
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"You have no fucking idea what that bitch took from me," I spat, my voice shaking with the intensity of my fury. The words barely left my mouth before they were charged with raw emotion, every syllable a stab into the heart of the silence that had stretched too long. "You think mom was the only one who died? You are dead fucking wrong. You weren't there, with me. You weren't there, through everything. You were out for months—how the hell could you possibly know anything about it?" My voice cracked, a choked sob threatening to break through, but I fought it back, the anger now coursing through me like a venomous river.
My fists clenched so tightly I could feel my nails biting into my palms, the pressure of holding it all back unbearable.
"You have no fucking idea what she did to me. What… what—" The words caught in my throat, and I stopped myself, too raw to continue.
The tight knot in my stomach twisted painfully, threatening to tear me apart from the inside out. I could feel the blood pounding in my temples, hear the steady beat of my heart as it threatened to burst. My eyes closed as a flood of memories rushed in—memories I couldn't escape. They clawed at me, suffocating me, until I felt like I was drowning in them.
"What she did to me," I whispered, my breath shallow, nausea overtaking me again. It was as if the weight of everything was too much for my body to bear.
"Persephone," a soft voice called to me from behind, cutting through the storm inside my head. I felt her presence, steady and gentle, but she didn't touch me. "Persephone, darling, do you want to go to the bathroom? I can help you."
I clenched my jaw hard, fighting back the overwhelming rush of emotions. "No," I said through gritted teeth, my voice low and strained. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fucking fine." I turned away sharply, my back to her, facing my desk.
I gripped the edge of the desk with white-knuckled hands, my fingers trembling, but I refused to show any weakness.
"I'm fine," I repeated, though the words were hollow, barely more than a lie I told myself to keep from falling apart. "I've never been better." My heart raced in my chest, and I took a shaky breath, trying to slow it down.
But every breath came slower, more labored than the last. The nausea in my stomach twisted like a storm, threatening to swallow me whole. I regretted drinking that shake earlier—what the hell had I been thinking? I needed to keep control. If I lost it now… I wasn't sure what would happen.
"Persephone, darling," Ophelia called again, her voice like a soothing balm that I didn't want to hear. She was hovering, close but not too close, as though she couldn't help herself. "You don't look okay." She didn't get it. She had no fucking clue.
When I opened my eyes, I felt the heat of fury rising in me again. "Who's fault is that?" I snapped, my voice sharp and biting as I turned to face her. My glare could've burned a hole through her. She flinched, but I didn't care. I didn't care about anything, about anyone, not right now. My world was made up of nothing but anger and the suffocating memories that plagued me.
Before she could respond, the doors of the classroom swung open, and both Headmasters walked in, their presence immediately changing the atmosphere in the room. Their eyes locked onto mine as they entered, and I could see the immediate shift in their demeanor—tense, cautious, like they knew something was wrong, but didn't quite know how deep it went.
"Are you okay, Persephone?" they asked together, their voices laced with concern. But it wasn't just concern—it was more than that. It was an understanding, an unspoken recognition that something wasn't right, something far darker than they could even fathom.
I pressed my lips together, trying to push down the swell of panic that was creeping up in my chest. "Same as yesterday," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper, but I knew it wasn't enough. Every day was the same—each one a mirror of the last. Every day, I was drowning in the chaos inside my mind, unable to escape the memories, the trauma, the loss.
Their eyes immediately shifted to Ophelia, and I could feel the tension in the room escalate, thickening the air. Her body stiffened, and she looked between the Headmasters and me, clearly aware that she was walking a fine line.
"I hope you weren't telling the entire class about the memories you saw in Persephone Callidora Bathory-Moreno's mind last year, Professor Ophelia Hrisoverghi!" Headmaster Diana's voice was like steel, cold and dangerous, each word cutting through the silence with a precision that made my stomach turn. There was no mistaking it—she was serious, and she wasn't going to let this go.
Ophelia seemed to shrink under Diana's gaze, and I couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction watching her squirm. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first. "I didn't spill anything," she stammered, her words faltering as she tried to regain her composure. "I just… I tried to help."
"Out loud?" I scoffed bitterly, the venom in my voice unmistakable. "What a fucking way to help," I muttered, my hands shaking at my sides as I struggled to keep it together, my anger threatening to consume me entirely.
"Don't make us retrain you, Professor," Headmaster Samuel muttered, his voice low but laced with frustration. His eyes bore into Ophelia, and she seemed to deflate under his scrutiny, her guilt evident in the way her shoulders sagged.
"I won't do it again," Ophelia said quickly, her voice sounding more like an apology now. "I genuinely wanted to help. I'm sorry, Persephone."
I didn't respond. I didn't need to. My glare was enough to convey everything I was feeling. "If you say so," I muttered under my breath, my words dripping with bitterness. The idea of compelling her to forget everything she'd seen in my mind flashed across my thoughts, but I forced it back down. I could've done it. I could've made her forget, made her lose everything she knew, even if it meant detention. But that would make me as dirty as she was. So I swallowed the urge, burying it deep inside me where it could do no harm.
"Don't mention that ever again," I hissed, my voice a razor-sharp threat. "Please," I added, my voice strained. I didn't want to sound demanding, but I couldn't help it. "Just don't."
She gulped, the sound small but noticeable, and I could see the fear in her eyes. "I won't," she promised, her voice quieter now, filled with uncertainty. She turned to the Headmasters, avoiding my gaze. "Sorry," she murmured, barely audible.
"You won't be able to mention her memories ever again," Diana said with a smile that looked too innocent to be real. But the words, the promise, were enough to bring a small sense of security to my heart. I nodded, just slightly, and felt the tightness in my chest loosen ever so slightly. "Don't worry, Persephone," she added, her tone warm, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Why the damn mystery?" Apollo's voice broke through from behind me, full of frustration and confusion. He had always been the one to push for answers, to demand the truth, no matter how much it hurt. But I could see the frustration in his eyes, the confusion growing with every unanswered question.
Headmaster Samuel turned his gaze on Apollo, and I saw something in his eyes—something close to pity.
"You should respect what your sister has decided, Apollo Valentine Bathory-Moreno," he said, his voice calm but unyielding. "There are things that are hard to speak out loud to anyone who hasn't been through it. The things your sister has seen, the things she's gone through—they would break any of you if you were in her place. Your actions, your questioning, will only make her trust you less and less. If you judge her now without even having the faintest clue of what happened, I can't even imagine how you would react if you were to know the full truth of everything."
I didn't respond right away, my eyes fixed on my trembling hand. My fingers were barely able to hold themselves steady, the weight of the burden I carried pressing down harder with every passing second. There was so much I could say, so much I could reveal, but I wouldn't. I couldn't. Not yet. Not until I was ready.
"They won't," I said, my voice hard, like the edge of a blade. "They can question me all they want. I am never opening my pretty mouth to tell them shit." The words were heavy, like a vow I'd made to myself. "I warned them about this yesterday when they came to see me on the roof, but they don't seem to grasp the depth of what I said. Or how serious I was being."
"Does father know?" Apollo asked, his voice raw, his anger palpable.
I finally looked up, locking eyes with him. "He's suffered enough already," I replied, my voice barely a whisper, my heart aching. "This burden is all mine to carry. I can't let him know. I won't let him know."
My mind flashed to the memory of my father, broken, devastated by the loss of his mate, his wife, his Queen, our mother. If he knew—if he found out about the twins, the babies we never even had a chance to meet—he would break. And I couldn't bear to see that happen. Not again.
It would destroy him. And I couldn't let that happen.