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Scott killed Winona with his own hands.
He didn’t spare her another glance as she lay there, the light fading from her eyes. For him, it was over. But for me, the sight was incomprehensible. My mind struggled to process what had just happened, what I had just witnessed.
Scott, who had once held Winona in such high regard, had ended her life for my sake. The shock was overwhelming, my body too frail to withstand the barrage of emotions surging through me. I felt my consciousness slipping away, the world around me growing dim.
The last thing I remembered before the darkness claimed to me was the feeling of lips brushing against my forehead and the soft murmur of an apology whispered into the night.
When I finally woke, I was in a hospital
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bed. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled my nose, the steady beeping of machines in the background a constant reminder that I was alive. But the world felt different as if something fundamental had shifted while I was unconscious.
Later, I learned the full extent of what had happened after I fainted. Scott had been arrested that very day, charged with Winona’s murder. There had been no trial, no chance for him to plead his case. The evidence was clear–cut, and the outcome was inevitable.
Winona had died on the spot, the silver dagger still buried deep in her heart. Scott hadn’t tried to run, hadn’t resisted when they took him away. It was as if he had accepted his fate, as if killing Winona had drained him of whatever fight he had left.
Before they took him away, he had made arrangements. All his assets were transferred to me, ensuring that I would be taken care of. He had even arranged for the
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best healers to treat my injuries, to heal the scars that marred my face. It was as if he was trying to atone for what he had done, to make amends in the only way he knew
how.
As I lay in that hospital bed, I couldn’t help but feel a deep, aching emptiness. My life had returned to a semblance of
normalcy, but it felt hollow as if something vital had been lost. I was free, but freedom felt like a cage without the person who had sacrificed everything for me.
The days turned into weeks, and I slowly began to recover. Physically, I healed. The scars faded; the pain subsided. But there was a wound inside me that refused to close, a lingering sense of loss that I couldn’t shake.
Many years passed, and life moved on. I rebuilt my life and became strong and independent once more. But the memory of that night, of what Scott had done, stayed with me. It was a shadow that I
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could never quite escape, a reminder of the price he had paid for my safety.
One day, a student of mine, a bright–eyed young girl, asked me a question that took me by surprise. “Ms. Skye, you‘ re so beautiful. Why haven’t you gotten married?”
The innocence in her voice made me smile, but the question brought back memories I had long tried to bury. I looked out the window, my gaze drifting southward to where I knew Scott was
imprisoned. His face appeared in my mind, as clear as if he were standing right in front of me.
“I was married once,” I replied softly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. “But it was a wedding without a groom.”
The girl looked at me, puzzled by my response, but she didn’t press further. For her, it was just a curious question, a
passing thought. But for me, it was a
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reminder of a life that could never be, of a love that had been tainted by blood and betrayal.
The years had dulled the pain, but it had never truly gone away. It lingered in the corners of my mind, a ghost of a life that could have been. I had loved Scott, in my way, but that love had been twisted by the events that had unfolded. Now, all that was left was a bittersweet memory, a reminder of a time when things were simpler when life was less complicated.
As I looked out the window, I wondered what Scott was doing at that moment, if he ever thought of me, if he regretted what he had done. But those thoughts were futile, distraction from the life I had built for myself. I had moved on, but the past was still a part of me, a chapter that could never be rewritten.
And so, I continued with my life, carrying the weight of that night with me. It was a burden I had accepted, a reminder of the
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choices we had made, and the
consequences we had to live with. But no matter how far I moved on, I knew that a part of me would always be tied to that moment, to the man who had sacrificed everything for me.
For in the end, we are all shaped by the choices we make, by the lines we draw, and by the love we carry with us, even when it is tainted by darkness.
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