Page 70 of Bastian

Time does not heal all wounds, no.

Love does.

“Mommy,” Ella whispers worriedly at me and it has me already on edge. I hate the feeling of impotence I feel whenever she seems sad or distressed.

“Yes, baby?”

“Now that you’re back. Will you give Dad his heart back?”

All breath seems to leave my body, all rational thought, too. Even words get stuck in my throat. “W-what?”

“Daddy said that you stole his heart, I wonder if you can give it back to him now that you’re back. I know it would make him happy if you did since, sometimes, he’s not that happy.” She whispers. “When he thinks I am not looking, I see him all grumpy or sad.”

Fuck.

Tears well in my eyes, but I do my best to hold them back.

“I...” What should I say? What is there to say? I could lie, but I refuse to lie to her, but then my truth is too much for a child to handle, and she shouldn’t have to handle it. “I will.” Smiling softly while nodding, I hug Ella to my chest and wonder if I lied to myself or her.

Now I have a choice to make.

Do I succumb to my hate for her father and ruin the one person who always loved me no matter time or distance, or do I try to play nice with the only threat to my heart for her sake?

Shit.

Why is everything with Sebastian never black and white?

Nothing is ever simple.

Nothing.

Not even the love I still feel for the man.

Happy, bathed, and ready for bed, Ellaiza hops in the bed making room for me. Of course, I join her, still dressed the same way when I arrived.

I promised I would stay because she insisted but as soon as I’m able to leave, I will. Not only to avoid the media shit that will most likely follow if I’m caught leaving the White House as if I’m doing the walk of shame, but also because every second I spend here is proving to be more difficult than I initially thought.

Yes, time and wounds changed me, but every second I’m with them, I feel the old me clawing her way out of the deep hole I buried her in long ago.

BASTIAN

HIS WORLD

“Kindness is my enemy.” — A

I’ve always had a strong distaste for the color red. It brings back memories I wish to forget altogether. Besides, the godawful color is not flattering in most cases.

Cases like this room.

The Red Room.

Bright red walls, decorations of all shades of red and antique furniture framed in gold and dark browns.

Not flattening at all.

It’s history, and it should be appreciated, some would say.

I don’t feel the same. I find it grotesque and the only reason I spend most of my nights here is that the red on the walls somehow ended up reminding me of the color of Arianna’s lips. So, if you ask me why I even tolerate the color is for that sole reason. How pathetic is that?

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