Chapter Eleven #3
I freeze. Something in the attic window catches my eye. A movement. A shadow. A person? I squint at the building, trying to see past the reflection the sun casts on the glass. That’s when it hits me. Grief. Anger. Pain. Despair. Thundering through my body all at once.
Tears fill my eyes, the air around me thins, and I struggle for breath, sinking to my knees, my mouth opening and closing, my lungs gasping for air.
‘What… what…’ I paw at my throat as it constricts.
White spots pop in front of my vision as I fall to my side, my breath a wheezing squeak.
Is this how I die?
Another wave of sorrow rises up from deep within.
Does it really matter?
My life comes into sharp focus. My isolation, my otherness.
I’m not loved. I’m not wanted. Rejected by my family.
My mother and grandmother dying to escape me.
Even Celeste chose death over being my friend.
And Callum will be next. Because I’m a monster.
I’m cursed. Not worthy of love. Not worthy of anything. I’m an abomination.
That’s when I hear the voice.
‘It will be over soon,’ it says, rumbling through me, strangely soothing. ‘No more pain. Let go. Release it all and you’ll finally be free.’
So, I breathe out, and I don’t take another breath back in.
I lie on the hill, the grass cool against my face.
The pulse throbbing in my temples slows, and I’m suddenly so heavy I feel as if I will sink into the ground.
That the moist dirt will envelop me and drag me down into the earth’s warm caress.
It feels good, the blackness that beckons. It feels like relief.
‘It will be over soon,’ the voice says again.
Whispers swirl through the air, a hiss of strange sounds I don’t understand.
‘Let go,’ the voice coos. ‘Don’t you want to be free?’
‘Yes,’ I croak. ‘I want to be free.’
As darkness fills the corners of my mind, I hear another voice, this one calling out my name.
I ignore it at first, focusing on the sweet nothingness seeping into my bones.
Then the other voice comes again.
‘Ms Daniels, I’m leaving for the day.’
The nothingness begins to recede. Air fills my lungs, and my eyes flutter open. A face. There’s a face staring down at me. Floating, blurred, dreamlike. There’s something familiar about it, but the more I try to focus, the more the image fades away.
‘Who are you?’ I say, or think – I can’t be sure which. But then the face is gone, and I wonder if it was ever there at all.
With a breath so deep it burns, I push onto my hands and knees and reach for the tree beside me, pulling myself up. I rest my head against the oak, and my arms and legs tingle as life returns to them.
Clinging to the tree, I check around me, then look down to the house.
For a moment, I think I see something at one of the downstairs windows, a blur of a shape, maybe a figure, but when I blink it’s gone.
An intense quake rolls through my body, threatening to fell me again.
I quickly clean off the dead leaf mulch clinging to my jeans, and gather up my notebook and backpack, my hands trembling so violently I almost drop them.
Half stumbling and half running, my feet slipping and sliding on the grass, I make my way towards what I now know was Mr Rosing’s voice.
I arrive at the rose garden, panting, sweat dripping down the side of my face.
‘Sorry,’ I say through a series of puffs. ‘I didn’t hear you at first.’
‘Are you all right, Ms Daniels? You look as if you’ve seen a…’ He stops and glances at the house, his face draining of colour. ‘I need to know what happened.’
I instinctively shrink away from him. I’m shaking and my mouth is dry, and the nausea that I felt the other night is back. If I don’t get out of there now, I’m going to puke on Mr Rosing’s bland brown shoes.
‘I lost track of time.’ I force myself to smile. ‘So interesting. The graveyard. Thank you for letting me look around today, it was… insightful.’
‘Are you sure you’re alright? You look ill. Why don’t we go—’
‘I skipped breakfast, that’s all. Low blood sugar. I should head off. Callum will be wondering where I am.’ There’s something about this man that I know I cannot trust.
He glances at the house again. He looks as sick as I feel.
As I lurch towards the gate, I remember something. ‘Mr Rosing,’ I call back, ‘are some of your family buried in the graveyard?’
‘Yes. As I said, particular favourites of the household staff were awarded the gift of resting with the family.’
‘And these favourites were known as acolytes?’
He stares at me, his eyes cold and grey. ‘A strange word, I agree. The Westerns have a certain sense of humour – something that comes with privilege, I suppose. But the Rosing family has always served the Western family however we are needed.’
I speed away from the house, not knowing or caring where I’m going.
My hands are still trembling as they grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white and my palms slippery with sweat.
Only when I’ve put a decent distance between myself and the Western place do I dare slow down.
I check the rear-view mirror as if expecting to see someone, or something, following me.
Mr Rosing’s words float through my mind.
However we are needed .
Suddenly, my foot is hard on the brake as I swerve the car to the side of the road, skidding on the dirt. Fumbling with the door, I fling it open, jump out, lean over the drain ditch and vomit.