I've lately been focusing more on non-fiction writing for this blog, and for the Young Writer Blog, than my fiction writing, which is what I usually would be spending most of my time on. So, since I've been really missing writing fiction, I decided to write fiction. . . for my blog, so I could get the best of both worlds.
And let's just say I had so much fun writing this.
It is completely random and unconnected to any of my current works in progress, and it's a little bit. . . sad. . . but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
You Can't Love Me
The human mind truly is the scariest thing.
My eyes close involuntarily as I hyper-focus on breathing. Not my own quiet breathing, or the rough breathing of the guards at my shoulders. Not the breathing of the spectators, as loud as that is, nor the breathing of my sentencer.
I don’t—not can’t—locate the breathing of the wind, seeping in through a window or under a door, nor the breath of dresses across vibrantly white floors, fans cutting through stifling air, or chains rattling in the wake of a droning voice.
None of that matters.
In and out. Shaky inhale. Trembling exhale. Apprehensive. Nervous. Close to tears.
Scared.
That’s the breathing I focus on.
Because it’s the only thing I can focus on.
And when her breathing changes, it shocks me from my peace, and my eyes snap back open as the world falls back into reality around me. And the reality is I’m trapped. With no way out. No escape. No plan—no ploy. I am completely and totally out of options. Crowds of people, high stone walls, iron, steel, chains—they all surround me. A voice drones my fate, like it’s tomorrow’s breakfast menu. Shackles dig into my wrists. Cold hard stone bites at my knees. The grime of defeat clings to my fingertips—
Her breathing, though. My brow creases. It changed.
Someone says my name. I ignore them. One of the guards digs his fingers into my shoulder as if expecting a response. I ignore him, too.
She’s angry.
My name is repeated again, accompanied by my silence, which is in turn accompanied by a rough shove by the guard—I’ve dubbed him Short Tempered, even though I know both his first and last name and where he lives—that sends me falling face forwards into the smooth, expensive, white, hard marble floor.
She’s actually furious.
And that is why the human mind really is. . . scary, like I said. I’m being read my death sentence in a room full of my most mortal enemies, have zero plans for escape, am in a very uncomfortable position on the floor of said throne room, and all I can focus on is how her breathing is unusually angry.
I shift my head ever so slightly, hoping not to warrant another shove from Short Tempered, and my gaze collides with hers. The one gaze I have been trying my hardest to avoid—which actually is very hard when you’re focusing so intently on that person—the one gaze I wish with all my heart was anywhere but here, and the one gaze that I can’t seem to pull mine from.
I can’t look anywhere else.
Her deep, chocolatey brown eyes pin me down, and I’m motionless. Where the gold flecks in her irises usually emit warmth and laughter, they’re now hard, and glinting with hatred, the thick curtains of her eyelashes quivering.
And quivering with rage.
Because she’s not just furious. She’s not just angry. She’s angry at me.
I let out a long exhale, and smile. I can see it now, as well as hear it, in the way her nose is flared, and her chest rises and falls in a shuddering rhythm. In the way her high cheekbones are flushed bright pink beneath her tanned skin, yet her hands are curled in deathly white fists.
And finally, in the way her blood-red lips mouth do something. Now.
“—hereby pronounced guilty of high treason.” The announcer pauses, and in that pause, I give one shake of my head. And now she’s shaking. “And,” he continues monotonously, “sentenced to immediate—”
“No!” Her shout rends the silence of the throne room. Tears it right in half. I slowly close my eyes, but not before seeing the guards at her side reach out. To restrain her. To keep her back. Away. From me.
But they can’t silence her voice. “He is guilty of no such thing—I am the queen. The queen! You can’t do this!” A sob slips from her lips, and a shudder worms its way through me.
Oh, that’s not the problem. They can’t do it, you’re right. But I can.
I have to.
“Becket!” My eyes snap open, and once again I meet her gaze. And I almost flinch. Her eyes are frantic, wide. . . and scared. The eyes of a caged animal, but brimming with tears. “Don’t do this,” she whispers, shaking her head. “Please—don’t do this.”
A guard yanks me to my feet, and I turn my head. Away from her.
“No—Becket, no! You can’t—you can’t—” Her cry is ripped in half with a sob, and her next words are barely more than a whimper. “You can’t die for me. Please.”
But her plea is falling on deaf ears, and she knows it. More hands grip my arms, pulling me forwards. Pulling me away.
Her scream shatters against me as the shadow of the door falls over me, and for the smallest fraction of time, I look over my shoulder for the last time. And her horror, the way she strains against the guards, her hand, outstretched to me—they’re all seared into my memory, her scream echoing and rebounding in fragments in my head.
My mouth forms the words I should have said a million times over, a million lives ago, a million memories ago. I’m sorry. And then the shadows are closing behind me, and she’s gone from my present, and scarred into my past.
The human mind truly is the scariest thing.
But it’s the heart that is the deadliest.