From the private journals of Lady A
Running has become instinct.
Not a choice. Not fear. Habit.
For as long as I remember, my life has been measured in exits doors I didn't open, roads I didn't take, cities I left behind before the echo of my name could catch up. I learned early that survival favors those who never settle.
Some nights, I wonder if it would have been kinder had he found me long ago.
If vengeance had come swift and final, perhaps I could have salvaged a handful of quiet years afterward. Even five would have been a mercy. Peace, even borrowed, would have outweighed centuries of vigilance.
I ask myself who I might have been if our paths had never crossed.
If the shadow trailing my steps had never learned my shape.
Regret is a strange companion. It changes weight by the day.
Some mornings, guilt is heavier than fear.
Other nights, hatred eclipses them both.
There are moments I crave absolution so fiercely it aches. And others where I care for nothing but breathing through the next hour unseen.
I hate him.
And worse I sometimes imagine touching his face, not to wound, but to beg. For forgiveness I don't deserve. For an ending I know he won't grant.
Because this was never about what I wanted.
This was always about what he would take.
Perhaps this this waiting, this constant dread is the true punishment. A half-life spent listening for footsteps that never quite arrive. A future reduced to anticipation.
Still, I know better than to hope for mercy.
He is patient. He always was.
If death finds me first, I will call it grace.
If he does
then this was inevitable.