4th of April, 1907

Damaskhein has, finally, come and gone.

I have refused to leave my room. I do not want to see the sullen or scornful or potentially piteous looks from my fellows. I know what they will say — that I have soured the pristine reputation of the oldest place for higher learning in the country.

How one, little person could do that, I don’t know. It is not like I have power, I am only a student after all.

I do want to know what the men will whisper and chortle about. I already know it well enough, after spending less than three hours last night amongst the gentry.

I cannot stand to be a creature of ridicule, an object of fascination – shoved under a magnifying glass and prodded and poked by eager, groping fingers.

I shudder at the very thought.

❂

A letter, addressed with “Return to sender”, dated the 4th of April 1907

Dear Doctor Lemonthistle,

I hope your jaunt away from the palace has been as relaxing and enlightening as you insist they always are.

While you work from outside the high walls, I, however, do not. And I cannot help but wonder why I have nothing assigned from you. No new formulas to learn – for example, I was trying to teach myself about units of pressure and their interchangeable nature. Had it been a more formidable or less simple topic, I would’ve failed.

I hate to ask it now, as you are likely neck deep in your work and volumes upon volumes of literature, but I will: when do you expect to return?

I do not wish to sound fraught or like I wringing my hands, but I need to know. A lack of work puts my progress on halt. It is not a substantial effect yet, but it could become one. It frightens me more than I would care to admit to your face.

Your (sole) student,

Tillis Fernsby

❂

5th of April, 1907

The only thing I can seem to focus on is the way the storm crashes against the glass, rattles the windows.

I watch as raindrops race across the panes, swift and sure and, then, gone.

My head is blank, empty – and, yet, it is a tangle of incongruous nothing. Thoughts that flicker in and out of clarity, blurring around the edges, leaving me grasping for them and opening my hand to reveal wisps of smoke, carried away by the wind.

But, one question is clear in my head. Abundantly: Are they really wrong about you?

There is a voice full of snarling loathing – one that would belong to a wolf plucked out of a fae story – that repeats, over and over, in that rough cadence: Maybe you are a whore.

In my haze of incoherency and disquiet, the rasp grows more pronounced, morphing and twisting until the only thing I can allow myself to think is: Whore. Whore. Whore.

The voice changes one last time, the beast’s growl becoming more sneer than snarl. Now, it is my voice, taunting me.

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Do it, you twisted thing. Do it.

Beast of burden.

You are nothing more than a thing of tooth and claw, a creature to be honed. You are what they say you are – student, whore, political weapon. Embrace it, or see death embrace you.

My hands shake as I reach for the shard of glass, its jagged, unfriendly edges cleaned of blood.

And, I hold it to my unbandaged knuckles.

6th of April, 1907

(The handwriting of this entry is shaky and rough.)

For the past few days, I have lived in an uninterrupted state of quiet.

I do like quiet - but it makes my head exceptionally loud. So loud, in fact, that all other sound seems a distant memory.

Perhaps it is fitting, but, even in physical silence, that I am otherwise drowning in a cacophony of noise.

I cannot silence these voices and urges. Not even in sleep.

And, so, I pay in blood.

My arms have never been more bandaged and sharp objects never more appealing. Now, they have no choice but to avoid me.

I hope they flinch.

❂

7th of April, 1907

I have been keeping my door locked, but today, I peek out when someone knocks.

Rad’s face loses some of its color with rapidity. I know I look more corpse than human – washed-out, hair matted and down, eyes slightly sunken, eye bags an ugly shade of purple, like a bruise.

He swallows, thickly, and keeps the tremor (mostly) out of his voice, “Tillis. I trust you heard the news then? Do you, er, fare well?”

Obviously, I do not, but he clings to his formalities – when it suits him most.

“The news?” I rasp, my tone brittle and dry as a skeleton. My tone betrays my anger, my shock. Only a piece of it, but still.

He winces, “I’m assuming you have, then.”

“What news? That Setra and I are sleeping together?”

A more pronounced grimace, “Yes, that news. I didn’t want to see you hurt, Till.”

“Well, you did, Rad. Shielding me won’t work forever.”

“I know. But, the things they’ve been saying–.”

“Don’t phase me. I may not have heard worse, but I don’t care. If it were true, I would be angrier.”

“You’re still hurting. You look like death warmed up. Let me help you.”

“No,” I grit out. And I close the door.

I retreat back to my bed, bury myself under coverlets – hoping, perhaps not so secretly, to suffocate – and sob.

Letter sent from Radine Obtel to Asteri Pearbrandt Lorens, dated the 7th of April, 1907

Asteri,

It is with the utmost of urgency and greatest of haste that I write to you.

The revelation of the media being vultures is nothing new in our circle, but for my cousin, it seems to have unsettled her.

I have never seen her more unkempt, Lorens. She looked like a corpse, a shell of herself. Her hair was limp, likely unwashed, her eyes dead and glazed, her skin almost waxy,

She looked like a specter. A corpse. She wasn’t even wearing her glasses when she opened the door. They must’ve fallen off – and she didn’t even notice.

I implore you – nay, I beg of you – to return to the institute’s grounds and to see her. This could be the difference between life and death for her, Asteri.

Do not do it because we are friends. Do it for her. We all see the way you look at her.

Humbly yrs,

Radine Obtel

8th of April, 1907

I have survived off of tea and the occasional little pastry for the past few days.

The bandages on both arms now resemble gloves. They are nearly touching my elbows, and are thick.

I suppose I get sick satisfaction at leaving myself wanting. The hollow in my stomach feels good, the sting of the cut and the splash of scarlet on the marble.

It all feels good. Right.

Perhaps I am more monstrous than given credit for.