Redemption of Royals (Royal #1: Book 3) | ✔

7

RvR khatam hone ki khushi mein ✨

-• dance with me •-

Rudra

wars end brutally
on both ends.
scars of victory look no different from scars of defeat.

I've started to feel a lot recently.

Love has made me vulnerable. Or maybe accepting that I can feel too, has what made me vulnerable. I had no idea emotions could be so inexplicable. I see doors I can't open. I see paths I can't walk on. I'm stranded. I need to keep going, but the road that is open isn't of my choice, and the road I want to follow is not mine. So what's the point? If I'm not going where I want to, is it even worth it? Why do I bet my entire life on the destination I never planned to reach?

Will it give me the end I'm seeking? The peace I'm searching? Will the air there be still even when I'm not? Will the storms there not shatter houses? Will I hear screams of joy there instead of horror? I've spent my life sitting up at nights. Will I be able to sleep there?

My eyes shift to the nightstand. The supplement bottle of sleeping pills stands atop. I've never tried sleeping pills before. I had been put to sleep with enough sedation as a punishment for most of my life. I can't let my guard down anymore. The thought of falling deeply unconscious to the point I'm detached from the reality scares me. I need to keep my mind awake so I can protect my body.

I've been alone all my life.

But I've started to feel a lot more lonely these days.

Does that makes sense?

To feel lonely when you've always been alone. How can a person who never had a company feel the absence of a companion? Perhaps, a beginning, that's dying to meet its end? Or maybe, an ending, that never had a beginning to begin with.

A story, written solely for its tragedy.

I smile ruefully. I never thought my thoughts could run so deep. I'm revealing myself to me. It's not a beautiful feeling. Quiet, tragic actually. Like the story itself. All the parts, ugly, painful, disgusting, as the reader, and a writer, I get to meet myself from both the perspectives. And as I keep turning the pages, I get desperate to know the end. Because I'm tired.

God, I'm so tired.

I lower my head in the space between my knees. The scars on my body all come alive. They burn, glowing like embers from within my clothes. I can spot them out without needing to look at myself naked. I hate myself so much I can't bear to live with this body anymore, for the story it wrote isn't my favourite, will never be.

I get up from the bed and strip myself bare. Then I walk into the bathroom and stand under the cold shower. Placing my hand on the tiles, I lean in, putting my head under the cascade of cold water. The bellowing heat in my body cools down. I graze my face, down my Adam's apple, touching every scar stitched on my body, and as soon as my fingers flitter across those uneven bumps, memories fill my head.

"Look at me! Keeping you alive is a task! Do you get it!? A task!"

"I wish I can kick you in the face. But I need it."