(no subject)

[alt_regulus]

Eleven years hiding amongst this rabble, having somehow escaped your thoughts. Now this... on my pillow. A nice touch really. To open my door and feel it staring at me from across the room. 

 

Yesterday I would have sworn that the mark burned less than it did back then - that the slithering lines of ink had somehow faded under my skin. I imagined that I had, perhaps through sheer force of mind, grown numb to your effects.

But now it twitches with every stroke of the quill. Was I ignored then, or truly hidden in the stink of this place? Perhaps this has nothing to do with you at all.

 

 

But what is there that has nothing to do with you?