[/html]As children, they had been told of their father's love each night and had echoed the words in turn. They had come easily and naturally, and they had believed in them wholly and completely. Cassandra had not lost this sentiment and held it within her still, but she did not frequently acknowledge it because doing so brought great pain, and she could not verbalize it now, because that pain was already in her chest and her throat, lodged in her neck as a great boulder. Myrika would not ask her to stay, just as Cassandra would not ask her to go. Their love was implicit and permanent, and it hurt her so.
She had a thousand answers for her sister's question and did not catch herself in time to supress a small squeak of a sad, mirthless laugh. She shook her head and leaned sideways against the wall. Nothing, she wanted to say. We grew up, she wanted to say. I needed help, and no one was there, she wanted to say. I'm sorry, she wanted to say. "I'm so sorry." "What do you mean?" she did say, frowning to push away the traces of her brief, bitter smile, as she continued to avoid the turquoise gaze.
She was full of secrets that she pretended belonged to someone else. There were a hundred scars on her body that stayed hidden beneath the fur, and a hundred more that were only in her mind. She did not want Myrika to see; she did not want to tell her sister how cruel the world could be, and how cruel she'd become in turn.
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