Alexâs Journal - Rookridge Cliffside
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I stand at the edge of the cliffs in Rookridge, exactly where I should have stood years ago, dressed in white and full of hope. Now I am here, dressed in sorrow, with only the statue towering over me--an indifferent witness to the cycle of pain I've created.
The wind cuts through my clothing, rustling grass at my feet, whispering like distant voices mocking me. Below, the landscape stretches endlessly, peaceful, unconcerned with my misery unfolding high above.
Victor died here, hurling himself from this very edge because of me. Standing now where he stood, I almost think I can smell him--the faint scent of the earth from his clothes, as well as a haunting sweetness I never noticed when he was alive.
The image of Chicken Chaser's evil grin flashes unbidden through my mind.
Maybe we were cursed from the start, Victor and I, from the moment the Demon Door swung open or the first time we stood before this cruel statue. Maybe this is an unbreakable cycle--love, betrayal, death--that I'll never escape.
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I remember vividly the day Victor proposed.
He took me to a small cliff overlooking all of Bower Lake, the afternoon sun casting golden hues over the water. Beneath our feet, there were strange symbols--old stories said the Heroes' Guild once used them to travel magically across Albion. He knelt there, smiling nervously, ring in hand, promising we'd be together through every adventure life offered.
I always wondered if those old stories were true, but after meeting Chicken Chaser, the Villain of Bower Lake himself, I know they must've been.
Another cruel irony to twist deeper into my heart.
I've left letters behind. To Mother, I wrote:
"Mother, I'm deeply sorry for bringing this pain into our lives again. Please forgive me. Remember the days when things were simple and love seemed kind. I'm so tired now."
To Eliza at The Beautification Factory, I said:
"Thank you for giving me refuge, even briefly. I'm sorry to leave you shorthanded. You deserve better, as does everyone whose life I've touched."
Victor deserved better. They all did.
I close my eyes, the dizzying rush of the wind intensifying. My heart races--not from fear, but the anticipation of finally being free. Perhaps this step will break the curse, or maybe it's just my part in the cruel cycle.
âMind the edge, lass! Those cliffs are said to be cursed!â A cart-driver hollers from the road. I ignore him.
âIâm sorry, Victor,â I whisper into the wind, praying the gust might carry the words to wherever he waits.
I lift my quill one last time with trembling fingers, and carefully write my final line. Closing my eyes, I let the journal fall from my grasp, pages fluttering in the air, open for all to see.
Then, I step into the abyss--embracing the waiting darkness below.