Irene gently pushed the swing, her hands steady despite the weight of the memories pressing against her chest. Seilah's laughter echoed through the playground, carefree and full of joy—a sound that felt foreign to Irene's ears yet oddly comforting.
Her class was over, but as usual, Seilah's parents were late. The child had tugged at Irene's sleeve earlier. "Can you take me to the playground, Teacher Irene? Please?"
Irene hated the playground. It reminded her of things she preferred to bury deep yet, if there was one way to provoke Kyouka, it was to grow closer to the child.
"Are you sure your mom won't be mad at me?" she asked, her voice deliberately light, masking the discomfort within.
Seilah glanced back at her with a smile so bright it could crack stone. "No, Teacher. I'll tell her it was my idea. Besides, Mom doesn't let me enjoy these things. She's always busy."
"What about your father?" Irene asked, her curiosity genuine despite herself.
Seilah's smile faltered for the briefest moment before she replied, "He's on a business trip. He's the one who usually picks me up."
Irene opened her mouth to ask more, but before she could continue, hurried footsteps thudded against the pavement. They were quick, almost frantic. Irene suppressed a sly smile, already recognizing the telltale sound of Kyouka's approach.
"Seilah!" Kyouka's voice cut through the playground like a blade.
Seilah immediately straightened in the swing, sliding off to bow politely to Irene before greeting her mother. Kyouka stormed closer, her gaze darting between the teacher and her daughter. When her eyes locked onto Irene, they were filled with cold fury.
"Didn't I tell you to stay away from my daughter?" Kyouka hissed.
Irene handed Seilah her tumbler with deliberate nonchalance, ignoring the tension crackling in the air. "She asked me to play with her. I couldn't say no."
"Nonsense!" Kyouka's voice rose sharply, causing a few heads to turn in their direction. Some parents nearby murmured to each other, a few pulling out their phones to snap photos of the actress.
In an instant, Kyouka's anger morphed into a practiced smile, radiant and calculated. "Excuse me for a moment," she said to the gathering crowd, waving politely before gesturing for her assistant to take Seilah to the car.
As soon as Seilah was out of earshot, the mask dropped. Kyouka turned back to Irene, her words venomous but low enough to escape the curious ears around them. "You need serious therapy, Scarlet."
Irene blinked, her expression unreadable as Kyouka swept past her. A dry chuckle escaped her lips, a hollow sound that lingered in the empty space Kyouka left behind.
When Irene reached home, the silence greeted her like an old companion. She sighed, her fingers brushing against the crumpled newspaper sitting by her doorstep. Its headline screamed something about Kyouka's latest appearance—another dazzling gala, another stunning performance. Irene didn't bother reading it. Instead, she crushed it in her hand as she made her way to her room. The door creaked open, revealing the same dimly lit space she always returned to. The bedside lamp, left on out of habit, cast long, uneven shadows across the room. It was the only source of light, a solitary sentinel in a sea of darkness.
Irene paused for a moment, her gaze fixed on the lamp. Her chest heaved as she sucked in a breath. With a sudden burst of motion, she hurled the newspaper across the room, the crumpled ball landing with a muted thud.
"Did you not know how much I've become obsessed with you, Kyouka?" she whispered, her voice trembling. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms as she stared into the void of her thoughts. A bitter smile tugged at her lips as she stepped further into the room. "I hope this time, you'll be more interested in me too," she murmured, her tone soft yet laced with an unsettling edge.
She flicked her finger, and the overhead lights flickered to life, flooding the room with brightness. The transformation was startling. The once-shadowy walls came alive, plastered with cutouts and photographs. Every inch of the room was a shrine collage of her obsession. Irene's gaze swept over the display, her lips parting as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, she stood in the center of it all, the stillness around her a stark contrast to the turmoil within.
The quiet hum of the lamp filled the space as she reached out to touch one of the photos, her fingers lingering on Kyouka's face. "This time," she said softly, her voice barely audible, "you'll see me."
A few days later
Irene couldn't help but marvel at the irony of her situation as she stood before the altar in the school's chapel. A woman who didn't believe in God, teaching children about faith—it felt almost absurd. She thought of herself as a hypocrite, guiding young minds to revere the stone figures lining the walls, saints with frozen expressions of grace and piety, their gazes empty. The words she spoke felt hollow in her mouth, rehearsed lines she didn't believe in but had perfected over time. Names of patrons rolled off her tongue, accompanied by stories of their contributions to faith, none of which resonated with her. Yet, the children listened with wide-eyed wonder, their innocence almost painful to witness.
She guided them to kneel on the padded benches, "Bow your heads, fold your hands, and close your eyes."
The children obeyed without question, their tiny forms silhouetted against the stained-glass windows as sunlight painted them in hues of red, gold, and blue. Irene's gaze lingered on them for a moment before she turned toward the altar, her lips pressing into a thin line.
"You can ask Him for anything," she said. "He will grant anything you pray for."
She didn't believe what she was saying. To her, the gods were silent statues, their power no more real than the stories crafted around them. But the children didn't know that. Their small voices began to rise in whispers of prayer, earnest and full of hope.
Flashback
"He will grant anything you pray for," Kyouka's voice dripped with mockery, her lips curling into a smile that sent a chill down Irene's spine.
Irene whimpered as Kyouka yanked her head back by the hair, forcing her face toward the cross mounted high on the wall. The flickering candlelight painted eerie shadows across its surface.
"PRAY!" Kyouka's voice cracked.
Irene bit her lip, trembling as her body quaked under Kyouka's unrelenting grip. Her eyes darted to the glowing hair straightener in Kyouka's other hand, the heat radiating from it palpable even from a distance.
"And… for-forgive us our trespasses," Irene stammered. She could feel the tears streaming down her cheeks, her breath hitching in short, frantic gasps. "As we forgive those who… those who…" Her words faltered, fear choking her throat.
Kyouka's grin widened, her eyes glittering with sadistic glee. "One," she began, her voice singsong yet laced with menace.
Irene's lips quivered as she tried again. "As we forgive those who—"
"Two," Kyouka continued, her tone darkening, her hand tightening its grip on Irene's hair.
"Please…" Irene begged, her voice breaking.
"THREE!"
Without hesitation, Kyouka pressed the hot metal onto Irene's shoulder blades. A searing pain exploded through her body, and she let out a piercing scream, her knees buckling beneath her. Her cries echoed through the room, but Mard Geer and the other woman held her steady, their expressions cold and unyielding.
"You don't know how to pray, Irene," Kyouka taunted, pulling the straightener away, leaving an angry, blistering mark in its wake. Her tone was cruelly cheerful, as if she were a teacher chastising a careless student. "This is your punishment. The gods won't be happy to see you failing such a simple prayer. Maybe I should've given you an F in that subject back then."
"Please, stop," Irene sobbed, shaking her head as the pain coursed through her body.
"Pray again," Kyouka demanded, leaning in close so that her breath brushed against Irene's ear. "Maybe this time, the gods will hear you."
The room felt suffocating, the air heavy with Irene's labored breaths and the faint hum of the hair straightener heating back up. The cross loomed in front of her, an unfeeling witness to her torment. Irene swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she tried once more, the words spilling from her lips in broken fragments.
"And forgive us our trespasses… as we forgive those who trespass against us..."
A few years later
"Pray again so that those gods will hear you."
The words echoed in Irene's mind, a cruel mockery of the faith she had never truly known. Cloaked in blood-soaked clothes, she knelt on the church's cold marble floor, her body trembling as rainwater dripped from her hair and mixed with the crimson stains on her skin. The storm outside was relentless, its howling winds and pounding rain serving as a grim accompaniment to her torment.
"Please," she whispered, her voice hoarse and barely audible.
Her tears fell freely, mingling with the rainwater streaking down her face. She couldn't tell the difference anymore—rain, blood, tears—they all blurred together into a single, suffocating tide. Her vision swam as she clasped her hands together, her fingers trembling against one another. She dragged herself closer to the altar, her filthy, bloodied clothes leaving a trail of despair on the pristine marble. The sacred space was unblemished, an untouched sanctuary of ivory and gold, yet her presence defiled it with her desperation.
Her hands reached out, shaking, to touch the cold, lifeless statues that lined the altar. Saints carved from ivory, their faces serene and distant, stood in silent indifference. She smeared their pristine surfaces with the dirt and blood on her palms, her cries growing louder.
"Save her," Irene choked out, her voice breaking into a wail. "Please, just save my daughter!"
The words echoed through the empty church, bouncing off the high ceilings and falling back on her like a curse. Her sobs wracked her body, her cries raw and guttural. She clung to the statues, shaking them as if trying to rouse them from their eternal stillness. But the saints remained unmoved. Their carved eyes stared past her, their frozen hands outstretched in gestures of blessing that now seemed mocking. They had ears, but they did not hear her. They had hands, but they did not reach out to her.
The gods, the saints, the patrons—none of them listened.
Irene's heart shattered anew as she realized the futility of her pleas. She had one request, one desperate prayer, yet the heavens remained silent. Her tears pooled on the marble floor, her body collapsing under the weight of her sorrow. Her cries grew softer, weaker, until they were nothing but whispers carried away by the storm.
The church stood still, its holy figures bathed in the faint glow of candlelight, unmoved by the anguished woman kneeling before them.
Present
"Is this your first time in therapy, Ms. Belserion?"
The black-haired man's voice was calm, his pen poised over the notepad resting on his lap. Irene blinked, startled. Her mind had drifted again, back to the haunting memories of the church. She straightened in her chair, forcing herself back into the present.
"Ms. Belserion?" he prompted again, his tone gentle but firm.
"Yes," she replied finally, her voice quiet but steady.
The session began with the standard questions—her background, her habits, and what had led her to seek therapy. Irene answered mechanically, her gaze fixed on a point just beyond the therapist's shoulder. It wasn't until he asked what had been troubling her that she hesitated. Her breath caught for a moment before she reached up to unbutton her blazer. She slipped it off carefully, folding it over the back of the chair.
"I think it's easier to show you," she murmured.
The therapist's expression shifted from professional neutrality to surprise as Irene turned, revealing the scars that marred her skin. Burn marks snaked across her shoulder blades and upper arms, their jagged edges a testament to the pain she had endured.
"It's been years," she said, her voice carrying a faint tremor. "But sometimes it still stings—both physically and mentally."
The black-haired man frowned, his eyes scanning the marks with concern and quiet sympathy. "That must have been… difficult," he said carefully.
She nodded, pulling her blazer back on.
The session continued with more questions, the therapist jotting down notes as Irene spoke. Just as they were wrapping up, the sound of the door creaking open startled them both. Irene turned instinctively toward the intrusion.
"Honey, how come you didn't let me know you'd arrived already? You should have—"
Kyouka stopped mid-sentence, her words faltering as her gaze landed on Irene. For a moment, the air in the room seemed to freeze. Irene stood, her movements deliberate as she straightened her blazer. She turned to face Kyouka, her expression unreadable. Kyouka's eyes narrowed slightly, her composure wavering as she processed the situation.
"Do you two know each other?" the therapist asked, glancing between them.
"Yes," Irene answered quickly, cutting off any chance for Kyouka to respond first. "I've known Kyouka since high school. She's… my best friend," she added, the words tasting bitter on her tongue.
Kyouka's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Her husband glanced at her, clearly intrigued but unaware of the undercurrent of tension between the two women.
"I see," Zeref said, looking back at Irene. "It's always interesting when connections like this come up."
"Small world," Irene replied with a faint, practiced smile.
Kyouka's hand tightened on her dress. Irene could see the flicker of anger in her eyes, but she wasn't going to let her say anything.
"I'll see you next session, Dr. Zeref," Irene said smoothly, grabbing her bag and walking toward the door. She paused briefly beside Kyouka, leaning in just enough for only her to hear.
"Tell your gods I'm making progress," she whispered, her tone laced with venom.
A/N: Please don't take things seriously, this is merely a work of fiction and any depiction of any gods or faith does not reflect or hold any conveyance. Thank you for reading. Bye for now.