Page 48 of Checks & Bonds

His eyes had haunted me since the Imprinting ceremony, full of... Possession? Desire? It was hard to pinpoint, but it lingered in my thoughts like a stubborn stain. Why did he have such a hold on me? And why did I let him?

I shook my head and forced myself to type out a few words.

Gothic literature often explores themes of isolation and fear.

My own sense of isolation was palpable. Even surrounded by people, I felt alone. No one understood what it was like to be trapped in an engagement you didn’t want. No one knew the internal battle I fought every day just to keep my composure.

Authors like Mary Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe delved into the human psyche...

I couldn't help but think about Henry's psyche. What drove him? Was it just power and control? Or was there something deeper that he hid from everyone else?

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. Concentration eluded me like a mirage in the desert. The words on the screen blurred together until they were nothing more than meaningless symbols.

Frustrated, I pushed away from the desk and stood up. The room felt too small, too confining. I paced back and forth, trying to shake off the thoughts that clung to me like shadows.

Why couldn't I just focus? Why did everything always come back to him?

I glanced at my bookshelf, hoping for inspiration or distraction. Rows of spines lined up neatly, worlds contained within each cover. If only escaping into those worlds were as easy as opening a book.

But no matter how many pages I turned or how many words I wrote, reality would always pull me back. And Henry... Henry was an undeniable part of that reality.

Taking a deep breath, I returned to my desk and stared at the screen once more.

These works often reflect societal anxieties...

Maybe that's what this was—anxiety over a future I had no control over. But recognizing it didn't make it any easier to handle.

With renewed determination, I forced myself to type another sentence, even if each word felt like lifting a weight far too heavy for me to bear.

There was a gentle knock on the door. I paused mid-sentence, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"Miss Freya?" Carmen's tentative voice came from the other side.

I sighed, pushing away from the desk and walking over to open the door. Carmen stood there, looking up at me with concern etched on her face.

"Mr. Mathers wants you at dinner," she said, her voice soft but insistent.

I shook my head, my resolve hardening. "Thanks, Carmen, but I'm not hungry."

As I moved to close the door, her eyes widened in surprise. "But, Miss Freya, you must attend."

My grip on the door tightened. "I don't have to do anything," I replied firmly. I closed the door before she could respond further.

Standing there, staring at the closed door, I felt a surge of defiance. This was the closest thing to control I had left, and I wasn't about to give that up.

I returned to my desk, determined to get back to my essay. The words on the screen stared back at me, daring me to continue. I took a deep breath and began typing again.

These works often reflect societal anxieties and the human condition, exploring themes of fear, isolation, and the unknown.

As I delved deeper into the intricacies of Gothic literature, something shifted inside me. The rhythm of my typing became steady, almost hypnotic. The act of writing provided a brief escape from the chaos of my thoughts. Each word I typed felt like a step away from the turmoil that Henry brought into my life.

Shelley's "Frankenstein" delves into the consequences of man's ambition and the loneliness that accompanies it...

The more I wrote, the more immersed I became. The characters and themes began to weave together in my mind, creating a tapestry of ideas that felt both distant and intimately familiar.

Poe's works often explore the darker aspects of human nature, drawing readers into a world where reality blurs with madness...

I lost track of time as I typed furiously, my fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose. For a moment, everything else faded away—the engagement, Henry's touch, the oppressive weight of expectations. It was just me and my words.

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