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Everyone seems so happy; that’s what’s eating me up from the inside.
My parents act like they don’t hear me cry at night. They ask me if I want sugar in my tea for breakfast, and remind me to catch all the lessons with my tutors. They take me to the seamtress to get my dress fitted for the next grand ball. They watch me as I play the piano day in and day out, complimenting me on my skills and dedication, mistaking my pain for passion.
Not a single word about Olivier. As if they didn’t even know what happened. As if they had nothing to do with it.
Caedes avoids me whenever possible. Sometimes, I hear him laugh somewhere down the corridor, and it makes me want to smash his face in. Sometimes, we have to sit opposite eachother for dinner, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to ruin his appetite by driving a fork through the back of his hand.
He has no right waltzing around the palace like he belongs here. Like he ever did to begin with.
Avien and Alexandre go about their lives like usual. Everyone does. I can’t blame them; they probably truly don’t know. Alex asks me how I’m doing every now and then. He can tell something’s wrong, but he won’t hear it from me. No one will.
Not as long as I have sweet revenge to look forward to.
I don’t know how they do it. Do I carry the knife in my back with such dignity and poise that they genuinely don’t notice? Has the emptiness not consumed enough of me for anyone to question what’s wrong? Is my grief not uncomfortable enough for them to care?
It will be soon. But of course, they don’t know what yet. Because they don’t know me. They never have. They miscalculated, and gravely so.
Everyone’s moving on like nothing happened, and the normalcy they all display so vehemently frankly disgusts me. Everyone seems happy. They won’t for much longer, though; I’ll make sure.
I’ll pull that goddamn knife out of my back and make them all wish they had never left it there for me to sharpen against the stone-cold anger that came with their betrayal.