𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐱𝐯𝐢𝐢. shame, shame, shame.

But smoking, it seems to be acceptable to those around her. Students see her smoking and give her a nod of we understand, continue to punish yourself. Or, her favourite response ( in some sick, twisted way ) is when they cross the glooms of the courtyard to stand with her, light their own cigs, and start a conversation. That hole in her heart weakens and she feels almost wanted in a way that only Harry seems to make her feel, but that's where her heart plummets. She thinks Harry would be furious with this new, disgusting habit she's picked up. Chaos and heartbreak, she thinks, will follow the revelation. But then, there's that voice inside her head ( that sounds suspiciously like her mother ) that thinks it honestly doesn't matter. Why would it, when she never receives a letter in response? Harry's moved on in his life and forgotten her, and she's still stuck. A beetle in quicksand. Sinking and sinking until there's nothing left. Not even a trace of her existence. Harry's forgotten her, but she has not. She lives within her mind every, fucking, day.

"See you later, Vinke." A hand is clamped on her shoulder. An older student ( 'Theadosa, but call me Thea if you value those bones of yours' ) says. She's pretty, like a model straight from a magazine, and it makes Lavinia wonder what's she's done to land here.

There's a slight tingle when her hand meets Lavinia's shoulder, but it's nothing compared to the burn of Katalina's. "See you." She responds, drops her cig on the ground and grinds it with the tip of her boot.

Lavinia shivers and tightens the thin polyester blazer around herself, hands shoved in the pockets as she makes her way across the courtyard and back into the warmth of school. November dawned barren skies and slushed snow-kissed grounds; there didn't seem to be an ounce of happiness anywhere, and it seemed this year would be more dreadful than the last. Winds howled in warning, drapes shook in fear, and the students of St. Atarah's all wore gloomy expressions upon their faces.

It had taken two weeks for Lavinia to even so much as look at Katalina after she'd told her about the body. There was an underlying fear that gnawed at her bones whenever she did, like she was waiting for that moment Katalina would detonate and lay every layer of who she was for Lavinia to see — and that, she certainly wasn't ready for. She'd thought she was, but then she thought of that cold, crazed look in Katalina's eyes, and the faint handprint that had covered her jaw for days afterwards, and she knew she would never be ready for every layer of the brunettes psyche. She was alluring, and she was kind, but she was terrifying. And Lavinia thinks that perhaps she's better off never knowing. Just accepting the bits and pieces she receives like a souvenir, stored on the shelf nailed to the wall like a treasure, and leaving if at that.

Amour-propre, Lavinia thinks, and then she gets it. If Lavinia were not a God ( or so she thinks ) then she would think of Katalina as one. She commands those around her without so much as a second thought and there's a need to worship her. To just drop to her knees and pray for forgiveness from God in exchange for a blessing from Katalina — she's a deity, a demiurge, a demon. Alluring and kind, but terrifying in the sense that when she goes against Katalina's ways the icy chill of her hazel eyes burns holes within her skull and sends her mind alight. But Lavinia is a God, and Katalina does not know that, and yet, she still loves her. She's seen the ragged edges and chipped pieces of her soul and still wants to be around her. Katalina isn't perfect, far from it, but Lavinia isn't perfect either. And perhaps that's why Lavinia likes her so much. Lavinia has secrets, but so does Katalina, and she's made it clear she doesn't want to know what it is that's whispered inside Lavinia's mind before the puppeteer pulls on her strings.

She rounds the corridors from the main entrance and starts up the stairs, and then a whisper of her name from Sophia and Giavanna pulls her from her reverie. Clenching her fists in her pockets, she ignores them. That is a problem for another day. When she isn't so deep within her mind that she can properly torture Sophia for all that it is worth and makes her regrets the things it is she does; the nightmares that have come to life. A shiver goes down her spine at the thought and an image of Matthijs hanging over her, bloody and crazed, flashes before her eyes. He's not here, she thinks, he cannot get into St. Atarah's. A few minutes later ( and repeating the phrase like a broken record ) Lavinia stands outside Charlie's door, knocks with the tip of her knuckles.