Page 113 of To Scale the Emerald Mountain
My spare time is filled in my room, trying to reawaken the spool of power that holds my Sight. It’s still rigid and unrelenting which only frustrates me more.
Nana insists trauma can deeply affect magic. I insist that I’m not traumatized.
At least she has finally stopped sleeping in my room. I haven’t had any nightmares in weeks. My reality still warps occasionally, but it’s getting easier to pull myself out of. The nosebleeds have eased. The headaches have not.
My fighting techniques are getting sloppy and erratic.
My restlessness is becoming unbearable. Where I used to want nothing but to lay in bed all day and not think, these days I can’t make myself sit still. Trying to sleep is physically painful.
When I try, my legs scream at me to move, the muscles burning with my stillness. I’ll rub my legs together to try to soothe the edge, but it doesn’t help. I end up punching them, just trying to get the crawling sensation to settle before I eventually give in to the need to be standing, moving, doing.
I haven’t read any more of the books Alec left for me and refuse to think of the gems of the gods. During a night of pacing, my eyes kept darting to the Rayveesh myths, and I got so furious at the sight that I ended up throwing it in a linens closet in my bathing chamber to keep from wanting to rip it apart.
I turn down all Kraeston’s offers to venture into the city after I epically fail to produce worthwhile electric currents every single day.
Food is becoming difficult to handle again. My stomach churns and pumps poisonous bile up my throat, burning everything it touches along the way and leaving my throat raw and scratchy.
I’m becoming jumpy and have reverted to avoiding everyone, not just Alec, whenever possible to do so. I can’t stand the alarm that crosses over everyone’s faces when I’m around, even Kraeston’s.
It makes me want to smash my fist through a wall.
Alec tries to see me every day. He knocks and announces who it is; I tell him to fuck off.
Sometimes he does. Sometimes I sense him sitting outside the door for hours, not trying to hide that he’s there like I suspect he has in the past.
Sitting at the vanity in my bathing chamber, I stare at my reflection. Black kohl runs down my face in messy tracks from not washing it off the night before. I pinch my cheeks, trying to hone in on the sting, but I can’t seem to find it.
After laying a towel in my lap, I pick up the dagger I’ve begun using in my daily ritual of pricking my fingers. I go through the motion of sticking each one, watching the skin heal over smoothly. I suck in a sniffle and rub my thumb across my nose, streaking blood above my lip.
Pinching my cheeks in my reflection again, I still feel nothing. Placing the blade back in my hand, I bring the tip to the crook of my left arm and drag down, down, down.
A ragged breath sucks in at the thick stream of blood that seeps through the wound. I marvel at how quickly the flesh knits back together. When the seam seals itself at my wrist, I wipe the dripping blood from my arm with the towel.
Loud footsteps thunder through my bedchamber.
Swiftly opening a drawer, I drop the blade and the towel on top of it before sliding it closed. My head turns in time to see Alec bang open the door, searching the room frantically with fear in his eyes.
“I thought…” he starts, looking around confused.
“You thought what? You could barge in here unannounced?” I demand cooly.
Alec scans the room again and sniffs the air. “You are bleeding.”
“Another nosebleed.”
Alec takes in the streak above my lip skeptically before leaving with obvious reluctance.
It’s a warm day.
After practicing my currents in the stifling desert, I managed to down a cup of tea and piece of dry toast for lunch. Nana handed me my ass during training, causing me to scream and threw my staff at the rack of weapons, knocking it over to send the assortment of staffs rolling across the pitch with a deafening clatter.
Nana then suggested we should take a break tomorrow. I asked her when she would be setting sail for Bokhaii.
I’m pacing my room after my sad excuse of a meal, rearranging pictures and small plants when a knock comes at my door. “Fuck off, Alec!”
“Good thing it’s not Alec!” a feminine voice calls out.
Cescily.
