Trashes of the Counts' Families || Trash of the Count's Family || OC

51

The figure crossed her hands in a familiar way, one hip to the side in bitchiness. "Next thing you know, you might go around wearing dresses. You look so ghastly in them! A tight dress— you'll be called a WHORE!" The figure screamed that last part, making Adara scramble away.

She didn't like screaming. She didn't like this figure screaming. She hated when this figure screamed, and she screamed often. She had often gone on tirades that Adara would look horrible in a dress, especially tight ones. And now this figure taking her appearance was repeating it.

The figure changed again, back to the child from before. The child that looked like her. "You can't get rid of us! It isn't that easy! You need us!"

Adara was struggiIing to respond. She didn't like this. She would have rather she was getting chased. "I don't— I don't need you. You aren't a part of me—."

The child seethed, its eyes a bright green, its bloodied dress now lavish. "Of course we are! Without us, what would you be?"

"Adara Thornwin," she whispered, soft as ever. "Without you, I am Adara Thornwin."

The child's eyes widened, its eyes back to that dark black. It screamed though Adara did not hear the words, it tried to claw at her face, trying to claw at her eyes. But the child did not reach her. Because the child started slowly melting into the inky floor, the lake all around them.

It trashed around, sometimes tall and blonde, sometimes short and bleeding. Sometimes both, sometimes neither. But the ink swallowed it whole anyway.

Adara stared at it with unkind eyes. The form of her younger self. She might have tried to clutch the child on another day, she might never have said those words. But she was Adara Thornwin. And she did not need her past.

It was quiet. The serenity of this moonless space was restored when the figure disappeared.

But then she started sinking, the inky substance taking her with it. She did not melt into it like the figure had, she simply sank. She stayed still as if she were in a trance, even when the cold substance reached over her stomach, creeping up to her chest.

She kept staring at the place where the child had melted. Aware of the inky substance swallowing her as well, but then not. But then she was neck deep and she awoke from her still state.

She tried thrashing as the child had did, but when she tried to scream the inky substance forced its way into her mouth, making her gag. Not soon after, she was fully submerged. And the dream ended.

She fell and fell, the falling never-ending, until she hit the hard floor— if it could even be called that— with a painful thud.

She looked up, into this familiar realm where she could never quite comprehend what was around her. It was cold, on this floor. Last time she was here she had been carried, she had never been on the floor.

She looked around, panic seeping into her. Some of them were already starting to awake, she needed to move fast. There was nothing in sight to help her get out of this realm that was in between reality and dreams, a realm that blurred the harsh lines until they merged.

She made a split-second decision, to punch the ground. It worked, though her knuckles started bleeding. Where she punched the pristine floor, made of something that was not quite glass, she left a dent, pieces of the floor coming loose.

She picked up a particularly sharp piece, and stabbed herself in her heart.

She awoke with a painful breath. She must have hit her lungs as well, she was having trouble breathing. And her knuckles hurt. When she checked them, they were only slightly scratched.