00; prologue

Prologue;

00; Nothing sort of introductory

It’s cold. Maybe it’s always been this cold and she’s cared too little about it to even register the temperature, but now, as she lies in her bed with nothing to occupy her mind with other than the dreadful fact that she has to constantly stand up and refill her glass of wine, every little thing seems to be coming out to get her, to cloud her mind and annoy her even further.

Persephone can hear her heart trying to steady itself, to beat according to the law of humans, but even with the effort she puts into this action, it can’t. It rises and it falls with her chest, jumps across oceans and falls into meadows with flowers all around, makes a crown of thorns for her head to wear upon and there’s something extremely tragic about this. It’s the first and most important difference between her and the people she associates herself with and has been doing so for the past few centuries. No matter how many dresses she buy, how many parties she attends and entertains the respectable guests, she’ll never truly belong with them. Persephone will forever be that stain one can’t get out no matter what concoction it uses, how many witches one sees in order to  get rid of it.

She shifts atop the mattress, attempting to move on one of her sides as to get rid of the ache in the lower part of her ribcage, but even when she achieves the desired position, the annoying itch remains there, bothering her. This always happens when she thinks about unnecessary things, about human things that have actually nothing to do with her, because she’s not like them, will never be and no matter how many customs she learns and how many rules of theirs she follows without mistake, she’ll remain the sore thumb in a room full of people.

Sighing, already frustrated more than it should be allowed, she raises the upper part of her body, sitting on her bottom and looking around the room, scoffing once she realizes that Killien is nowhere in sight. The idiot is most likely god-know-where, picking god-knows-what up for the night. He has this knack at showing up at the wrong time and missing when his presence means the most, reason while their relationship is anything but ideal.

Persephone, seeing there’s nothing for her to do with her time for today, nothing in close proximity to entertain herself with, groans, throwing her legs over the edge of the bed and slipping into her shoes, picking up the glass of wine and the bottle, and moving to the window where she places them on the sill before going back to her bed and getting under the covers, refusing to go outside of her room and converse with random people she finds on the hall.

If she is to be asked, she’d rather have chaos all throughout the day rather than this boring, content mood she’s in. That, frankly, should be all anybody should know about her for it says all it needs to be said.