Entry Fourteen: Apathy.

"Clarabelle?" Your voice is soft, edging on the incredulous. I wish I could just tell you to keep quiet and stay away, but I'm not really all that capable of speech at the moment. Nothing personal, you understand, but at this instant in time I'd rather just stare at you distantly than fall to pieces. "Is that you?"

"Yes." I find my tongue, and now I am smiling at you. I don't think it's a very good smile, but it's a smile all the same. That counts for something, right? "Who else would it be?"

"You look terrible." You're hanging off your boyfriend's arm. He's speaking now, and I hate the sound of his voice. Not to be judgmental or anything, but it doesn't bring up very good memories. It makes me feel like the ground is falling away from me, like I'm going to fall into the cracks of the earth, like I'm nothing.

"Thank you so much for saying so, Fletcher." My voice sounds brittle to my own ears, like it's going to crack unto a hundred little pieces. "That really means so much to me." I turn the full force of my smile onto him, and from his reaction, it is definitely not a good smile at all. He always did think that I used my teeth too much…

"You really should go to a doctor, Clarabelle. You don't look well." Your eyes are concerned, and that's kind of sweet, even if your words really aren't. You seriously think I'm ever going to set foot in a hospital again?

"I thank you for taking an interest." There. That should shut you up.

We just stand around for a while, speaking. He says something stupid, I snap back as bitterly as I can manage, and you desperately try to mediate. Eventually, we part ways, Fletcher and I casting each other poisonous looks. I get my shopping finished, and I note the way that my hands are shaking. I return home, and I put everything away, and I collapse.

Curled into a little ball and shaking and sobbing, I wonder how my life has actually changed since I left that place. Not a whole lot, probably.

Eventually, I manage to draw myself up, and I stare at myself in the mirror.

You look terrible. I wish that his words didn't hurt me like that. Wouldn't you say that I've suffered enough at his hands? Why should it continue, even now?

I stare at my reflection, and I will myself to see that he's stupid, that he's wrong. I can't. I don't look how I remember I did before. My outline looks almost blurry, like I'm a ghost. Light shines through me, and everything becomes distant and vague.

Oh, wait. That's because of the tears.

Even with my eyes clear, I can't see any kind of defiance. I look weak and I look soft and I look far too human for my liking. My face is distorted, twisted, with pain and with misery.

I'll prove him wrong, Valkyrie, I swear to it. I'll build my life again. I'll become stronger.

It's a beautiful thought, and yet it seems impossible. Unattainable. My stomach lurches quite unpleasantly, and even though I know that there is nothing for me to regurgitate, I cannot stop myself from running to the sink. It's a reflex, and yet, as I hunch and shudder, I still haven't let go of the hope.

A/N: Things are looking up, ne?

~Mademise Morte, October 22, 2011.