Chapter 12
Tether
THE REQUIEM | Present
Sad moon… You who see her, let her know that I am dying unintentionally.
I am back in bed after my Mother left. I lie there like a statue carved from adrenaline and terror, waiting for the silence to reclaim the room.
It’s absurd how little of what my Mother said makes sense to me. Not a bit. I stare at the door, hoping whatever I see or hear or find out is just an illusion. There’s also a part of me that doesn’t want her to be a villain in my story.
But the photograph and that vial.
The knowledge is cold, a blade twisting in my gut. I inhabit a forgery. I am a painting that my Mother is retouching every morning, brushing away the dark, jagged strokes of my reality and replacing them with soft, pastel lies of her memory.
I do not sleep even though the medicine she has given me should make me lose myself. The dust motes dance in the shafts of light, suspended in a state of permanent, beautiful stagnation.
That is what this room is. A bell jar. And I am the specimen inside, breathing my own recycled air, slowly suffocating on the scent of lavender and betrayal.
But if I keep letting her play with my memories that way, I will lose myself.
Taking a deep breath, I swing my legs over the bed, hide the photograph under the mattress, and make my way to the bathroom.
There is no mirror in the bathroom, only one in the room, which saves me the trouble of avoiding my reflection. Every time I look at myself, I do not see me. I see a clone. There, but not truly there.
I brush my teeth, take a hot bath, hoping the tiredness will wash off me. It doesn’t. Wrapping a towel around myself, I walk into the closet, grab whatever I can find and change.
I hate how there are only dresses; it reminds me of my time with Zagreus.
He wouldn’t let me wear anything but dresses—silk, satin, velvet. As if I were his doll, and he could play with me however he pleased.
My heart stings at his memory.
Zagreus liked the way silk clung to my hips, the way he could ruin a thousand-dollar hem with a single, possessive tug.
He dressed me like a queen only so he could remind me he was the one who wore the crown.
Now, my Mother does the same, replacing his dark, bruising shades of crimson and midnight with these anemic pastels: lavender, cream, dove-grey.
A different cage.
A different colour of silk.
But the bars feel exactly the same.
I feel a phantom hand on the small of my back. I can almost smell him: the scent of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and that sharp, metallic edge of danger that used to make my blood sing even as it froze.
Those steel-grey eyes.
The ache in my chest sharpens. I should be praying he’s forgotten me.
I should be celebrating the fact that I am no longer under the shadow of a man who brands his name into the souls of his enemies.
Better the devil who knows your name than the angel who wants to erase it.
I am not afraid of his violence. I am afraid of her peace. Her peace is a lobotomy, but his violence was a heartbeat.
It made me feel alive.
At least back then I knew he would never hurt me.
Do I succumb to the lavender fog and let her heal me until I am nothing but a hollowed-out vessel for her ambition?
Or do I hold on to the pain, the blood, and the memory of a man who looked at me like I was a miracle and a sin all at once?
Love is a debt, yes. But obsession is a death sentence.
I won’t let her see the storm in my eyes. I will walk down those stairs, I will sit at her table, and I will be the silent weapon she created.
But I am not waiting for her to pull the pin. I am waiting for the predator to catch the scent.
***
When the door opens again at eight o’clock, I am the perfect girl. I am the sweet, foolish thing she expects to find.
“How are you feeling, my darling?” Hannah says. Her voice is a melody I once found comfort in, but now it sounds like the rhythmic scraping of a whetstone.
“Good, Mama,” I whisper. The word Mama tastes like ash. It feels like a sacrilege, a title stolen from a woman who died in a fire I no longer believe happened.
She brings a tray. Poached eggs, sourdough toast, a crystal glass of orange juice. It is a tableau of domestic bliss, a scene from a life I should have had. I sit up, offering her a small, fragile smile, the kind a broken doll might wear.
“You look better now that you’re dressed,” she says, reaching out to brush a stray hair from my forehead. Her touch is light, but it lands like a thousand pounds. I don’t flinch. I let her touch me. I am a master of the mask now. “The colour is returning to your cheeks.”
“I feel… lighter,” I lie. Each word is a stepping stone across a river of glass.
“The dreams were quieter last night and the shower helps.” She beams, and for a terrifying second, she looks genuinely happy.
That is the horror of it. She believes her own lies.
She has convinced herself that hollowing me out is an act of love.
A cage went in search of a bird; my Mother didn’t just find the bird, she plucked its feathers and told it the cold was a new kind of warmth.
“Eat, Selene. We have a long day of rest ahead of us.”
I eat. I chew the toast until it is a flavorless paste.
I swallow the juice, wondering if the “medicine” is mixed into the pulp.
I don’t care. If she wants me drugged, I will appear drugged.
If she wants me silent, I will be a tomb.
I am playing a game where the stakes are my soul, and I cannot afford to lose a single hand.
She leaves me after breakfast, locking the door with that soft click. I spend the day by the window.
The gardens outside are beautiful in a way that feels aggressive. Every hedge is trimmed to a sharp edge; every flower is planted in a geometric precision that defies nature. It is a controlled environment. A managed ecosystem. Just like me.
I try to read the books she brought. Bronte. Rossetti. Poetry filled with yearning and stone walls. But the words scramble on the page. I keep seeing Zagreus, not the monster the world fears, but the man who looked at me as if I were the only fixed point in a spinning universe.
Was it real?
Doubt is a parasite. It feeds on the gaps in my memory. I remember the cold iron of his world, the smell of gunpowder and expensive bourbon. I remember his hand on the nape of my neck. There was no lavender in his world. There was only the truth of the kill.
If he is the monster, why does his memory feel like the only thing that isn’t a lie?
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window.
I am a ghost haunting my own life. I am caught in a state of permanent déjà vu.
Every time my Mother speaks of my childhood, the trips to the coast, the birthdays with strawberry cake, the way I used to hide in the lilac bushes, a part of me screams.
That didn’t happen.
Whenever she speaks ill of Zagreus, something in me wants to defend him.
All I can see and remember, even when I press hard against it, is the void.
Blood.
Screams.
Hollow eyes.
Trembling hands.
I shut my eyes tight, shaking my head until the room spins.
Stop it. Stop it.
I want the illusion. I want to believe she is my Mother, and this is home. I want to be the girl who obeyed the spoon, because the girl who knows the truth is a girl who has to fight. And I am so, so tired of fighting. It is easier to be the weapon. It is easier to be the doll.
But then I feel the weight of the photograph in the mattress.
Property of the Cosa Nostra.
I am not hers. I am not his. I am a ledger to be balanced. I am a debt to be paid.
The day drags on in a blur of forced normalcy.
I move from the bed to the chair. I flip pages of books I don’t read.
I eat a lunch of chicken and roasted vegetables.
I am the perfect prisoner because I provide my own bars.
I am terrified of what will happen if I climb the walls.
If I look over the edge of the “sanctuary,” will I find a cliff?
Or will I find that there is no ground at all?
Evening falls, dragging a shroud of grey over the manicured gardens. The shadows in the corners of the room stretch, those long, dark fingers reaching for me again.
The door opens. My Mother enters, draped in silk. She looks radiant in red.
“It’s time to get ready for dinner, Selene,” she says, her eyes glittering with a strange, frantic excitement. “I’ve invited our guests I told you about this morning. It’s time you started rejoining the world.”
She leads me to the vanity. I sit on the cushioned stool, staring at my reflection. My skin is pale, my eyes too large for my face. I look like a Victorian waif. My Mother stands behind me, picking up a silver-backed brush.
She begins to stroke my hair.
“Do you remember, Selene? When you were six, and you got that ribbon tangled in your hair? You cried for an hour because you thought I’d have to cut your hair off.” She laughs, a light, tinkling sound. “I spent the whole night untangling it. I wouldn’t let a single strand be lost.”
I look at her in the mirror. Our eyes meet.
We have the same jaw, the same high cheekbones. We look like two versions of the same tragic story. But her eyes are bright with a terrifying certainty, while mine are hollowed out.
“I… I don’t remember the ribbon,” I say softly.
Her hand pauses. The brush stays in mid-air. Then she continues, her voice unfaltering. “Of course you don’t, darling. You were so small. And the trauma… it buries the sweet things deep. But they’re there. I’m keeping them safe for you.”
You’re erasing them. You’re burning the forest to make sure I don’t get lost in the trees.
“You are so beautiful,” she whispers, leaning down to press her cheek against mine. “You are my greatest achievement, Selene. My masterpiece.”
Nausea surges up my throat. A masterpiece is something you display. A masterpiece is something you sell to the highest bidder.
“Mama?” I ask, my voice trembling. “When can I leave this room? When can I go outside? Into the real world?”
She smiles. “Soon, my love. Very soon. But the world is dangerous right now. People are looking for you. People who want to hurt you. People like Vitale.”
“I don’t want you to feel like a prisoner,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s why tonight, you’re coming downstairs. We’ll have dinner together. Just like a family. I want you to see that you are safe here. That you can trust me.”
She stands up, smoothing my hair one last time.
“Wear the blue silk. It complements your eyes. It makes you look… alive.”
She leaves the room, the door staying open this time. An invitation. A trap. I don’t know.
I stay seated at the vanity, staring at the woman in the glass.
She is writing a version of me that serves her purpose, and every time I remember a scream or a touch of iron, I am a typo she has to correct.
I look down at my hands. They are shaking.
If I am a weapon, then I have to decide who I am pointed at.
If he is coming for me, he isn’t coming for the trophy. He’s coming for the fire.
I stand up and reach for the blue silk dress. I will play the part. I will be the silent daughter. I will smile and nod and listen to the lavender-scented lies. I will walk into her dining room and sit at her table.
I walk toward the door.
Whatever awaits me on the other side of the door, let me be stronger than that.