I sank back on the bench for a moment, chest heaving, feeling the ache in my fingers, in my eyes, in my mind. My head throbbed from staring at the words that made no sense to me hours ago, but somehow now… they were written.
I closed the diary slowly, letting the soft thump of its leather cover against my palm ground me. It had taken everything I had, every ounce of patience, every whispered curse at myself for not knowing, for being weak, for being ignorant. But it was done.
I rose stiffly, my knees complaining with each step. The torchlight flickered against the gallery walls, and for a moment I let my gaze drift across the paintings. The swamplands still stared back at me, shadows curling as if they knew my secret, as if they could see the blood I had spilled, the guilt I carried.
I didn't want to look. I didn't want to think. But I knew the images would haunt me, drifting into my dreams if I closed my eyes.
