cupid clearly hates me.

[ 13 ]

Every part of your body was still as you lied underneath the sleek covers, your eyes open and staring blankly at the murky darkness surrounding you.

It was late—the bright blue clock on the nightstand read 1:47AM—and you couldn't sleep. The image of Alastor's disappointed face was burned in your retinas, leaving you restless. You couldn't help but feel like you had wronged him by going in his office. And to make matters worse, he had barely accepted your apology.

You sighed, pulling the soft blanket up over your face. Alastor was the only person by your side. Everyone else important in your life was alive, and you were dead. He was your only friend, so you didn't want him to be mad at you.

Eventually, after much tossing and turning, your mind found ease and you fell asleep.

☆

The air was icy, licking the skin on the back of your neck as it swirled gently around you. Your eyes fluttered open, and you were confused as you found yourself staring at the edge of the forest.

The multitude of trees sent an unpleasant pang of familiarity down your spine. It was the same forest you ran to before the hell-bent father finally achieved his goal of killing you. A cold sweat broke out over your forehead as your chest restricted with dread.

"Stop!" The same man's voice, hoarse with anger, shouted. "Stop right there and put your hands in the air where I can see them!"

You were faced with the same problem as last time—surrender, or run?

Surrendering hadn't worked very well for you previously. Surrendering had resulted in death. If you stayed there, letting him corner you against the thick wall of tree trunks, you would reach the same terrible fate.

The other option was to run. You could face your fear and find safety in the dark forest, away from the resentful man and his gun, thus preventing the lamentable events that were sure to come.

"I said put your hands in the air!" The man cried, his voice cracking with the strong emotions that resinated inside of him. "Now!"

You didn't want to run, not into the petrifying forest, but you didn't want to get shot, either, for obvious reasons.

You knew that if you didn't act now, he would shoot.

So you ran. You bolted into the thicket of trees, legs pumping harder than they ever had before. You could barely see through the darkness, so you let your instinct take you where it wanted. Inaudible shouting from the father could be heard from behind you, too close for you to feel safe, and few aimless gunshots were peppered in here and there.

You just ignored the sounds and kept going. Thin, sharp tree branches reached out and clawed at you, tearing at your shirt, getting tangled in your hair. You tried to swat them away, but the effort only resulted in a multitude of cuts on your arm. You felt each one of them as if they were real.

Were they real, or were you dreaming?

After some time, you found a clearing. The moon from above bathed the lush green grass in pale light, making the dew on its tips shimmer in the night. You didn't stop, just kept running through the field like your life depended on it—which it did.

But then your foot caught on something and you went stumbling towards the ground, landing face first in the dirt.

For a moment, you were stunned, lying on the ground still as a board. The dirt smelled of raw nature and damp wood, and if you weren't so terrified for your life you might have found it quite pleasant.

As you pushed yourself up, you realized that some other aroma was in the air.

Fake cinnamon and blood.