After going berserk in my own room, throwing my books and candles I called down a little ,the monster inside me come a little, the marks I wore as a noble lady suddenly left when I was panicked shocked and flabbergasted After going berserk in my own room, throwing my books and candles I called down a little ,the monster inside me come a little, the marks I wore as a noble lady suddenly left when I was panicked shocked and flabbergasted
I looked at the letter a cold sign , where is it came from, what's the meaning of this , a noble young lady, who is writing cruel novel under a pen name. I was helpless alone and yet cruel I looked at the letter a cold sign , where is it came from, what's the meaning of this , a noble young lady, who is writing cruel novel under a pen name. I was helpless alone and yet cruel
What have I done , what should I do it undone it, who is haunting me ,is it really someone or is it me, What have I done , what should I do it undone it, who is haunting me ,is it really someone or is it me,
I told myself I would not read it.
I told myself a hundred times.
And yet, by dawn, there I was, seated at my desk, the candle guttering low, my own book spread open before me like a confession, the books I thrown at the door, the candles I tried to kill , the ink is spread among the floor, stains in my fingertips ,the hot water in my table , I was alone in my room yet i feels like somebody is watching , noticing and following ,did u feel comfort I don't know ,yet i looked at the novel "The Fall of Dorian Veyne."My most lauded work. My cursed creation, and the third letter he wrote beside it , first I took thenkvem and
I traced the words with trembling fingers. I remembered each line, each cruelty.
How I had stripped him of every joy, every fleeting chance at love, until all that remained was pain. My readers called it genius. They praised the darkness, the truth of it. But now, staring into the ink, I saw only my own hands smothering him, page after page.
The villain's letter lay beside me, heavy with accusation. His words echoed in my skull,
You made me.
You condemned me.
Burn me
Forget me,
I will return.
And he was right.
Even before the ink bled into my waking life,
I had never given him peace.
His story ended with him alone, betrayed, abandoned by the very world he sought to claim.
I had written him broken, and left him there to rot, because tragedy was more beautiful than mercy.
Was it my vanity that bound him now? Was it cruelty that gave him breath?
I buried my face in my hands, whispering,
"You were never meant to be real.
You were never meant to speak back.
The wind rattled the window, and in it I thought I heard a voice
not soft,
not kind,
but hoarse with centuries of hunger.
"Never meant to be real?"
"Then why give me so much sorrow?
Why carve grief so sharp it bled through the page?
No, Lady, you knew what you were doing. You knew the weight of cruelty, and still you gave me no joy, no reprieve, not even a single moment of tenderness to call my own."
"You dressed me in misery and crowned me with despair. You made me beloved only in my suffering, never in my living. And now you wonder why I will not die?"
"I have never known happiness. Not one breath of it. And that was your choice."
I slammed the book shut, but the words still screamed inside me.
I could not bear to look at the ending
he gallows, the silence, the line I once wrote with pride,
"And thus the villain met his fate, as he deserved."
As he deserved.
What if he had not?
For the first time since the letters began, a tremor of something new slipped into me. Not merely fear, but guilt. The kind that seeped into the bones and would not wash away.
I had thought myself his author. His master.
But perhaps I was only his jailer.
And now, he had come to rattle the bars...