“He said it was the kind of book you made your own.”
“Blood and roses, truly,” she muttered. It was strange to hear such words from anyone. Her eyes stared blankly at her blue veins on her arms. It was the kind of book that one made on their own? Was it written in red? Was it written in blood? Did this boy understand what he was speaking about? Because she was spouting insanity straight at his face. Her figure stiffened a bit. One that was made on your own?
“What secrets do you know!” she shouted, a little loudly as she jumped onto his desk.
She grabbed him by the collar. Her eyes burning with some kind of rage. The kind that you made on your own. Her book was from the blood and tears she had learned to hide behind a mask of nothingness. She wanted to shake the poor innocent from his collar down. There was no possible humanity left in her at that moment. “What the hell do you know, you insolent brat!” she screeched. Her voice that was once empty roared like a lion in the empty lecture hall. Her true voice had left its state of slumber. There was no possible way he knew what she knew. There was no possible way he read the inside covers of her own book. It was impossible. Those were kept in her mind’s vaults. Rationality fled from her anger filled thoughts.
This must have been the reason why she was inscribed onto Lotus. This was the reason why she was never to be on Iris. Her anger was starting to steal her soul. Her fingers snaked its way to his neck. Oh, how she wanted to strangle the words out of his throat. Her neurons would snap. Her mind might break down. “What book do you hold in your grasps. I will kill you for it.”