Weathered Journal

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Days have passed. Too many to count, all of them meaningless.

Hytia and Erno never made it out of the manor. I watched for hours as the flames took everything from me, the guards keeping their hands on my shoulders so I wouldn’t plunge into the conflagration after them. They tried to take me away, distract me. Never. The fire seared my flesh, smothered my love. I would burn the sight into my memory. If the light blinds me, so be it.

* * *
Neighbors assured me the thieves they caught would see justice for their crimes. As if being clapped in irons and thrown into a cell was any sort of justice. They claim the fire was an accident, the deaths unintentional. As if I can sleep better knowing that Hytia and Erno burned alive because of some mistake. I buried their bones—those that were not cooked to ash. She had pulled him to her bosom. A gesture I had seen done innocently countless times when they were alive. I wept to see it now.

* * *
Fewer and fewer visit me. The burns on my body and the charred remains of the estate unnerve them. They ask me to rebuild, to speak of anything besides the fire, and call me deranged when I do not comply. As though trying to rebuild a life from such an event wasn’t itself a sign of derangement. Hytia and Erno are still not avenged. The thieves that caused their suffering and death draw breath still. The prison is their fortress—I cannot bleed true justice from them behind those walls. But I have learned patience. I will wait.

For as long as my scars remain—I will have my revenge.

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