I can barely recall a time when I was ever happy, being so young when they took us. At such a stage in my life this realization hits me with the force of ten thousand bricks.
The only memory of feeling a spark of something other than the fraternal love for my sisters, something that gave me hope was meeting him. Trusting him, getting him to trust me back, opening my feelings up to him and not being lusted after really meant to me. It was a new and good feeling, being treated as a human being, a friend, and not as an object.
As soon as he went to continue in his journey, the hope started to fade as the fear of never seeing him again started to grow, and so the months passed…
…I will never know, it didn't seem like him, but maybe…Maybe he just used me after all…Like the man he is…
It's really funny, yet dreadful, being able to feel what's left of my sanity leaving my mind and little by little I can feel myself becoming the empty shell I've always felt like inside, on the outside too. Maybe that's the true aspect of the sickness that devastated the hearts and minds of empresses before me.
But I couldn't follow him and heal my sickness, still needing to redeem myself with the people I treated so badly for so many years and was responsible for, still needing to take care of my sisters, still depending on them. I should have remained selfish and followed him.
I wonder if I'll ever see him again before I completely lose.
