Epilogue II
Annie-Bella
Ihesitate outside my childhood bedroom door.
I never thought I’d be back here. When I left the DRMC to go to school I did so thinking I was heading out into the world for good, only coming home for holidays or special occasions.
And now I’m home for good. Back at the compound, back with my parents, my uncles, my aunts, and him.
Every year that I was here, on Valentine’s Day he would leave me a gift.
Artfully wrapped, a simple card attached, left on my pillow.
I grew to look forward to them, to see what the gift would be.
When I left for school and later, to start my big corporate life, the gifts stopped.
I admit, I missed them. Even when I had a boyfriend who gave me teddy bears and flowers I missed those simple gifts, wrapped with care instead of stuffed into a gift bag.
I missed the simple card that was void of hearts and flowery text.
Rolling my eyes at myself I push through my bedroom door, now decorated more to my style since I’ve come home as a grown woman having given up the life I dreamed about. A life that turned into a nightmare. Now all I want is familiarity. Safety.
I flick on my bedside lamp and my breath catches when I see it.
On my pillow, a small gift, wrapped precisely, with a card tucked beneath it.
Reaching out I stroke it as tears blur my vision.
I can tell from the size and the shape exactly what it is.
Picking it up in shaky hands I unwrap the gift carefully, not wanting to tear the paper, revealing bright white, the points of the crown glinting in the lamp light.
She’s heavy in my hand, a solid weight, grounding me, just like the man who gifted me her.
Reverently, I place the queen chess piece with the others I have been gifted over the years.
I don’t know why I decided to display the incomplete chess set on my shelf, but I’m glad I did, my queen fits perfectly with the rest. My eyes find the card and I pick it up, running a finger under the flap, and gently taking out the plain card.
I know exactly what it will say. That same thing it always says.
Opening it, my vision blurs. There, in Chess’s neat, all capitals handwriting are the four words that are written on my soul, and have been since I was 12 years old.
“You see the good.”