A/N: Sorry if the chapter is kind of bland. Harrowing doesn't have much of a conclusion because there isn't much she cares about or desires, so it was a bit difficult to write. She likes pretty things and drawing. She wants to draw and get by. That's her in a nutshell. Give her food, water, pen and paper, and a place to sleep? She's good to go.
Harrowing's always lacked empathy, in part due to her overall indifference when it comes to... basically everything. She's developed a basic grasp of cognitive empathy over the years, but that only gets her so far.
Emotional attachments are also something she doesn't really understand. For instance, Harrowing respects the girls and generally enjoys their company, but if you asked her if she loves them, she'd be confused by your stupid question and say "no."
Harrowing's narrating in her native language, and the second time she speaks, she's speaking in her native language; hence no slang or other minor dialogue changes like with the main story.
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Love. I don't get it.
I enter the church, looking around at everything. Pretty. I'm glad I brought my sketchbook. I look around at the pews, and I notice one in the very back that's nearly empty. I don't like sitting in the front, where a lot of people can see me, so I sit in the pew next to a woman. She has long, honey blonde hair. Most people wouldn't notice, but my keen eye is easily able to tell that it's a wig. She's wearing a pink peplum dress that goes down slightly past her knees and a gray lace, almost-opaque veil that makes her face nearly impossible to see. Despite the dark veil, I can tell that she's looking at me out of the corner of her eye, and I censure I know why.
"I don't wear dresses a lot," I say, looking at my sky blue scalloped dress, "or put my hair in a bun."
She nods curtly in response. I don't understand why she's doing this. I don't understand these strange emotional attachments. This mystery that I will never be able to solve annoys me, as does the fact that she thinks I can't put the pieces together.
They think I'm empty. Emotionless. They think I'm a walking corpse with nothing to live for. Because without love, what's the point of life?
It sounds like the plot of one of Story's stupid novels.
Here I am, sitting around, waiting for a ceremony dedicated to the very thing I can't even begin to comprehend.
As I sit next to a woman who gave her life up for it.
I look at her. Is that why she came back? Is that why she won't talk to me? I know what happened, and I know that if she reveals herself, we wouldn't be in danger. So it's because she can't face it. That very thing she holds so dear.
It is definitely her. But I'm not going to call her out on it. Not directly, at least.
I sit here, sketching one of the stain glass windows, which depicts the Passion, Jesus wearing his crown of thorns as he carries the cross. The weight of his love and forgiveness.
Eventually, the music starts, and we all stand. Lacey walks down the aisle wearing her dress (which, admittedly, doesn't look as much like a tablecloth now that she is wearing it). She looks like a princess bride, like in the movies I sometimes watched as a child. Her long veil trails onto the floor, and she has even replaced her usual black lace choker with a white one. It's as if she has stepped right out of a storybook. I memorize the sight, having now decided that I am going to draw it later.
The ceremony begins. I'm not going to get into detail because the significance of this is something I can't quite comprehend. The priest speaks the words of their god, and eternal vows are given.
We all walk out of the church, following the bride and groom. The woman who had been sitting next to me heads in a different direction, apparently having no intention of attending the reception. She had given up her friends and her life for this foolish notion I just don't understand, so I have to wonder:
"Are you actually happy even though you left so much behind?"
She turns around and looks at me, and I can see her grin behind her veil. She switches languages to match mine, confirming my hunch. "I should have known I couldn't fool you, Harrowing."
"...Is love really that powerful of a thing?"
She is silent for a moment, trying to think of what words she can use to properly explain everything to me. In the end, she realizes that there is no adequate explanation, and so she answers me with just one word before she walks away.
"Yes."
Let me tell you this much: I don't want your pity. Not feeling love isn't a curse. I could argue that feeling love is a curse. Having a dependency on other people sounds bothersome, after all. I'm perfectly happy the way I am, and though I have trouble deciphering the emotions of the people around me, I know that these girls I've known for so many years, who depend on this thing called "love," are happy and regret nothing.
Because for some people, love makes the world go round.