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“Karul, is everything all right?” I ask tentatively.
“I have much work to attend to,” he replies brusquely, not slowing his pace. “I will be in my study.” With that, he disappears inside, the heavy wooden door clapping behind him. His sudden change in demeanor has left me stunned and motionless on the walkway, feeling hurt by his sudden distance. Following the intimacy we shared during our ordeal, his distance now feels like a door slammed in my face.
Trying not to let the hurt show in front of the servants, I make my way slowly inside and up to my own chambers. I cannot understand why he would shut me out after relying on each other for survival and comfort…
And now, the days drag by slowly. Slowly and sadly, in my gilded cage. Without a lock. Without a key. I wander the too-quiet halls of the mansion, lost in my grief, with no one to share the burden. Free to stay. Free to go.
Withering like a flower left to fend in the scorching sunlight.
Karul is my sole connection to the world of the living, the only familiar presence left. Without him, I have nothing. But it's as if an icy wall has gone up between us again. I ache for the closeness we found, however briefly.
Now, the loss of him only magnifies my despair.
Assuring me that I’m truly and utterly alone.
As night falls, I’m unable to sleep, tears streaming all the prettiest makeup down my temples and staining the pillow. During the day, I wear a stoic mask, pretending I do not sit alone sobbing for hours on end. But inside, I am drowning. Imprisoned in a cell without a wall.
“And I was foolish enough to believe that I’d never feel that way again,” I whimper spitefully.
Each day, the darkness and isolation eat away a little more at my fraying composure. I need Karul's strength to cling to before I unravel completely. But he remains in his tower, the door remaining closed, and behind his mask of stone, he gives no indication if my suffering even stirs him.
Attempting to keep myself busy, I stroll through the sculpted hedges and flowerbeds, dead-headed roses in hand. No amount of tending can shape this into the oasis of beauty and tranquility I had once known.
No matter how I lose myself tending the plants, reality always comes crashing down. I talk to the florists and gardeners, pick the brightest colors I can find, and plant every single one by hand until my hands scream louder than my thoughts.
Sometimes, I stand at the iron gates looking out longingly at the forest beyond. How easy it would be to fly away, to flee this beautiful, punishing prison. Yet, something stops me each time. Foolish hope.
Hope for him.
I keep myself strung up. Both the warden and architect of my own demise. Some fragile, naive, foolish part of me still hopes he will emerge one day soon and see me again. My gallant prince in shining armor. Oh, how I can swoon… For him to truly see me, not some ghost, he glances through.
So I clip the heads off roses until my hands bleed, crying in secret where none can hear. Praying wordless prayers unto deaf ears. I’ve tried it all. Cursed the gods. Searched the corridors and my memories, looking for a clue or any indication of where I went wrong, until finally, I am left with a singular option: the drink.
The devil’s ambrosia. Yesterday, I drank deeply of my feelings, and tonight I do the same, but tonight I’m quite surprised to find liquid courage has replaced the despairing thoughts, and before I know it, I'm stumbling through the echoing halls toward the tower where Karul has sequestered himself these past several weeks.
I climb the winding stairs clumsily, using the cold stone walls for support, and upon reaching the heavy oak door, I pound my fists against it, heedless of propriety or composure in my inebriated state. Answers I will have. And now would be a day too late.
"Karul!" I shout, my words slurring. "I know you're in there! Stop ignoring me!"
Part of me is absolutely mortified hearing myself, but the wine has a funny way of eroding inhibitions, so I shout and hammer and curse in a way that is very unbecoming of my house, hammering on the unyielding door until my hands ache.
But no response comes from within.
Not even a stirring above the commotion, I have no doubt, started downstairs.
I pound and make a scene the best I can; my swan song, my last chance. I have to fight now to survive. Otherwise, all is lost — no longer able to keep the helpless thoughts occupied. I rage with everything I have, unable, unwilling to give up or surrender. I owe it to my father. I owe it to this small little slice of serenity I’ve been afforded.
Tears spill down my flushed cheeks, and I press my bloodied hands to the frozen barrier between us. "Please," I whisper hoarsely. "Please, just talk to me. I'm still here, Karul. I'm still here."
If I don’t fight now, I will simply wither away. It will be an unremarkable end for an unremarkable girl. But that’s not how my story ends. By some divine dealing of fate, I was given a chance to rise. So I must. For mother and father, who I promised to come back to, I must.
Then, quite suddenly, the wine or the memories or combination thereof sparks defiance within me. I stagger to my feet, swaying slightly. "I'm not leaving, Karul!" I yell, pounding on the door again. "I’m not giving up on us… I can’t; you’re all I have left… there is no reason to go on without once I’ve tasted love… I can’t…"
I know I'm being ridiculous in my drunken condition, but I'm past caring. Weeks of isolation and silence have eroded my composure. "Whatever I did to drive you away, I'm sorry. Just talk to me… Yell if you must. Anything is better than this silence. I need you…" The silence is deafening, and I sink to my knees.
I start to fade…
It really is hopeless.
