I HAVE NOTHING more to tell him. I have nothing more to say that would mean any more than what I have already said. I know this very well may be my final hours, but I won't give them to the man who hurt me the most.
The sun has set and I haven't seen Hades for the rest of the day, even when I came out of hiding from the bathroom, he had made himself invisible and gotten out of the way.
I sit in the kitchen looking over to his chair that's now empty. Its reminiscent creases tell me that he was sitting there not too long ago. I hate that I'm so angry with the mere thought of him, but what can I expect? A part of me wishes I didn't know — that I could have just stayed in my ignorant bliss. Another part of me feels like an idiot and is glad I've found out what a piece of shit he is.
But if I'm dead and I'm about to go back to whatever empty state I was in before, then I guess the latter doesn't really matter. Being angry with him isn't helpful to me. He can't take it back, as far as I know. Being angry with him is just leaving me angry in my final hours — or however long I have left.
Staring at his chair now, I walk over and run my hand along its arm. It's strange, to feel emotionally attached to a chair, but it's as if this chair became a part of his body since getting here. Seeing him out of it feels weird.
I look over at the Christmas tree. As sad as it looks, it shows me that, in some capacity, he did care. The tree wasn't for him, nor were the cookies. He did that all for me — to make me happy, knowing that I'd have to come to terms with this reality soon or be taken away blindly.
The truth is that I don't know how he was thinking any of this would go down. I assume that he truly thought of me like a doll when we first met. I was nothing more than an object. It hurts me so deeply to believe that, but from what he's told me, that's the only conclusion I can come to. So, at that point, he didn't care about how I'd feel about the situation or about how I would end up. He was angry, spiteful, and terribly selfish. If he could die, he would go with Tartarus, I know that much to be true. He's the worst of the worst. But even in knowing all that I do, I still see him as human.
Even though he's not human, I know he has his own thoughts and clearly his own feelings. I can tell that he truly feels bad. It doesn't change how terrible what he did to me was but it's better than him being unsympathetic. I do believe that he cares about me in whatever capacity he can. I just wish it didn't take him tormenting me to find that out.
I take a deep breath but the heaviness I feel in my chest hasn't let up. I worry that the heaviness may never go away. Not until I'm as dead as I was and then, I won't know the difference.
I can feel my tears resurfacing again. I didn't think I had the ability to cry any more than I already have but it seems I haven't drained myself of my tears yet.
I slowly descend to my knees, leaning my body against his chair as I take in my reality. How can I be dead already? I really thought I had a chance to live a better life and be free but I died years ago. My soul may have aged but the person I was never did. The Ellie that I admitted to being isn't alive anymore.
With shaky breaths and stifled weeping, I give up on trying to pull myself together and let myself go. I could cry for hours like this; I just might.
But just as quickly as Hades could disappear, I see him appear as he sits on the top steps. He peers down at me, keeping his distance but still keeping an eye out. It hurts my heart more to see him there because I know how badly I want to just give in and run into his arms.
I know I should never want to see him again but, just as I can't forget about the pain he put me through, I can't forget how I felt about him before all of this; how I feel about him still. I still want him and care about him deeply.
I look down to the floor, letting the tears fall off of my cheeks and nose as they pour down my face. When I look back up, he still sits there watching. His face wears the same guilty sympathy and pain that it has since the beginning of his admittance.
He moves down a step, clearly wanting to come closer but knowing I don't want him to. He looks at me as if looking for permission to come closer. I don't say anything, knowing I shouldn't give him the option to even see me. If I could leave this place, I know I should run as far as I possibly can. But even if I could leave, I wonder if I would.
I look up at him with pain and hurt, nodding my head to give him permission as he gets to his feet, quickly rushing down the stairs and towards me. I get to my feet and rush to him. We meet in the middle, colliding into each other's embrace.
I sob against his chest and feel his arm wrapped tightly around me — as tight as they ever have. I feel him kiss the top of my head before resting his head on top of it.
He doesn't say anything and neither do I. The only sound in the home comes from my sobbing echoing up to the tall ceiling. We both slowly descend to the floor; my legs too weak to hold me up any longer. Our hold on each other is still strong and does not break, even for a moment. I lean against him, my face is soaked in tears and his body is hunched over mine as we fall into a ball of grief.
I don't want to hate him but I can't forgive him; not even for my own sake.