"Over a Book" [MODERN HAMLIZA]

"Burn" - Chapter 21

Eliza crept down the stairs, her feet softly thudding against the traditional wooden steps. No one stirred. Nobody made a sound.

The embers of the fire, still crackling and sparking in the fireplace though now dying out, echoed a soft glow to the girl. She tip-toed closer, feeling the warmth creep over her skin and envelop her in its heated embrace. She crouched down in front of the woodburner, twisting open the hatch that let her reach into the case.

One hand sliding on the fire-protected glove, the other picking up the pieces of paper. She let her gaze scan over them one last time.

The multitude of hearts, swoopy non-sensical lovesick writing, a few messy sketches. All about the boy she once loved. About the boy she knew she still loved.

Taking out the first piece of paper, she lowered herself so that she sat cross-legged in front of the fire. She read the sketchbook page over and over, before ripping it in two, and with the gloved hand - she laid the paper on the remains of the fire, still crackling out in desperation to live.

It feasted upon the paper immediately, eating away at the thin, white substance, the ink from her pen momentarily dripping before fading out of sight as the flames swallowed the page whole. The fire only grew the more she fed it.

It was similar to the feeling, burning in her chest, choking up her throat with a smog that made her wordless. It gripped her and rid her of all noise. Soundlessly, she ripped another piece of paper, the fire blazing in her own chest growing ever larger at the sight of the enchanted sparks of auburn melting the paper.

Eliza didn't say a word. She barely even thought. She only knew that she had to keep going, to keep feeding the flames.

She could feel her eyes burning, prickling at the eyelashes; the same sensation that ran through her stomach, though she wasn't nervous. She wasn't upset. She was angry. For one of the first times in her life, she was feeling a raging, painful anger. An anger that hurt herself to feel.

See, she knew she'd never get over him. Despite all of the pain he'd caused her, she'd never know of someone better. Maybe she had romantacized him in her head, maybe he wasn't the charming, sweet prince who once held her hand. Maybe he'd never been like that. But he'd taught her how to love. He'd taught her how to be gracious. He'd brought her into a world that wasn't her own; a dimension of secrets, a library, where each book covered a new chapter of an exciting and new, interesting part of her life.

He brought her places she'd never gone: and not physically. In her mind, she'd never felt more at peace. Wandering around a rose-filled garden, flowering at her fingertips, the wild grass reaching up to her hips. Her bare feet running over the soft pillows of green blades below, the flowery scent from the garden filling her senses. Destroying any warnings, any flags that propped themselves up. She could spin around, feel the warmth of a clear, sunny day on her skin. A blossoming garden full of life.

He showed her how to live, and breathe every moment, instead of living them through books.

Down went another page, enveloped in the flames, eating away at the paper and ink. Her heart sank further. She could feel it pounding against her chest.

Curling up on her side, she placed her palm over the next and final page. It was a redraw of that first sketch she ever made of Alexander, where she'd copied it from Alexander's wall in his room.

She let a single tear roll from her eye and over the side of her nose, catching the light momentarily in her peripheral vision, before dropping to the ground. The fire roared happily, having been fueled, it had grown once more.

Eliza couldn't bring herself to burn the very last page. Folding it up neatly, she weakly rose herself, placing the paper in her pocket. Glaring at the fire, she whispered practically inaudible words under her breath.