𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑽𝒐𝒍𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒊 𝑸𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏

𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

It was as if his hands had a mind of their own, touching and groping every inch of my body without the slightest hesitation. The weight of his touch felt suffocating as if it had seeped into the very core of my being. The absence of any form of communication only intensified the unsettling experience. Not a single word left his lips, leaving me alone to grapple with the mixture of confusion, betrayal, and anger swirling within me. He had unleashed the full force of his desires on me, leaving me infringed upon and violated.

Even after he had left the room, his presence lingered like an oppressive ghost, haunting every inch of my skin. My legs carried me hurriedly to the bathroom, and with trembling hands, I locked the door behind me, seeking comfort within the confines of that small space. As I stepped into the shower, a wave of sadness washed over me, causing tears to cascade down my cheeks, merging with the streaming water. It was a ritual of sorts—a way to cleanse myself not only physically but emotionally as well.

The remainder of the few pieces of clothing I had left clung to my dampened body, a reminder of the violation I had endured. With a mix of determination and desperation, I shed those remnants, each piece falling to the floor with a dull thud. And then I stood there, naked and broken, under the spray of water that hammered down on my fragile frame. For what seemed like an eternity, I scrubbed my skin with a fervor fueled by rage and anguish, attempting to wash away the memories that clung to me like an unwelcome nightmare. The water turned from warm to scalding, but I barely noticed. Each scrub and scrape against my tender flesh became a symbolic act of defiance, a misguided attempt to rid me of the invisible chains that bound me.

Despite my knowledge that this act was futile and that the wounds were etched deeper than the surface, I continued to scrub. Each pass of my trembling hands carried the weight of my shattered innocence and of the betrayal that had left a mark on my soul. In that private sanctuary, I wished for the universe to balance the scales of justice. My heart hoped for him to experience the same pain that had been inflicted on me.

I awoke with a start, my heart pounding so fiercely that I could practically hear its thunderous rhythm echoing in my ears. It felt as though my heart was trying to break free from the confines of my chest. "Another fucking nightmare," I mutter quietly. As I slowly pulled myself up, I realized that my once neatly tousled hair now clung to my damp skin, serving as a reminder of the disheveled state that I was in. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead, intermingling with the disarrayed strands, creating a distressing and repulsive sensation that seemed to intensify as I brought my hands up to touch my face. Disgust coursed through me.

It is these lingering effects of trauma that plague me the most, long after the initial horrifying experience has passed. Trauma, in all its insidiousness, finds its residency in the aftermath—the remnants of memories that morph into unrelenting and vivid flashbacks. Merely fragments of the past turn into haunting specters that invade my thoughts, tormenting me like a relentless predator and depriving me of tranquility. Nightmares, those unwelcome guests that invade my slumber almost daily, serve as a constant reminder of the deep scars etched into me. Their manifestations are persistent, leaving me gasping for breath, and my heart pounding against my chest upon waking. It is a harsh reality that physical touch used to be an avenue of discomfort and unease. I had to work hard to make those feelings disappear.

Worse still, the sorrow intensifies when I contemplate the disparity between his existence and mine. I am forced to carry the weight of the past. Yet he proceeds with life as if nothing happened. It nauseates me to think how he nonchalantly moves forward, painting a facade of normalcy while discarding the ruins left behind without a second thought.

I groan as I stretch my arm toward the nightstand, where my phone is resting. Its screen displayed a merciless time of 6:00 a.m., merciless because it signified the three long hours that separated me from the arrival of the Volturi. This day, this very day, was the day that Alice's vision would fuse with reality. I was going to meet my mates—my seven mates. Just thinking about it incited a whirlwind of emotions within me, orchestrating a symphony of nerves that surpassed the definition of anxiety.

The Cullens enlightened me with the information about a true mate bond while unveiling the rare nature of my circumstance. True mates embody a bond of unmatched devotion and boundless affection, where both hearts willingly offer unwavering support. A divine union, crafted for one another's souls, intertwined in an eternal dance. Vampires have experienced countless generations passing by, witnessing the rise and fall of empires, and enduring the eternal loneliness that comes with immortality. It's only natural for them to seek the embrace of someone who understands the timeless existence they share. In their quest for companionship, they often come across a "mate", a person with whom they share a deep connection that surpasses the bounds of ordinary relationships. These mates offer comfort, understanding, and a sense of belonging. Yet, these connections are not to be confused with true mates, a phenomenon that occurs less frequently.

True mates are a bond between souls that lights a flame unlike any other. Possessing one's true mate is a gift beyond measure, an event that many vampires only dare to dream of. But to have not one, but seven true mates? That is unheard of. It is within this realm of unprecedented rarity that the Volturi kings, Aro, Caius, and Marcus, find themselves. Each of them was graced with the loving presence of a wife. In the grandeur of their immortal lives, these powerful rulers found affection in the arms of their chosen companions. However, as the centuries passed, their wives decided to go on a journey to search for their true mates. Aro and Caius bid farewell to their ex-wives, leaving behind a void in their hearts that could only be filled by their true mate's bond.

For Marcus, the pain was unbearable as his beloved wife, Didyme, Aro's sister, had left this world long ago. The depth of his affection for her was so immense that her loss proved to be an indelible wound to his soul. Marcus was left a mere shell of his former self. I find myself able to empathize with Marcus in a way; after all, I used to be a shell too. I harbor no ill will towards their ex-wives, for I comprehend the longing that consumes their immortal existence. After all, to walk this earth as a vampire for thousands of years must take a toll.

As the morning sun peeks through the curtains, it casts a soft golden glow on the walls. I find myself reluctantly leaving the cozy embrace of my bed. "Fuck," I curse as I stretch and shed the remainder of my sleep, ready to start my day.