I shake my head and continue on. It wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t love. It was a charade. It was a game that Magni Viri was playing with me. They lured me in and trapped me. I thought I was Jane Eyre, but maybe I’m truly Bertha Rochester, the mad wife in the attic. Locked up and hidden away—inside my own body. I was never anything more to these people than an empty shell, waiting to be inhabited.
