Ties and Tangles

Chapter 4 – The Puppeteer

I get up from the bed, my eyes streaming with tears like saltwater as new pain sears behind them. Gazing into the mirror, I behold only a specter—my collarbones protruding like shards from a broken porcelain figure, my complexion as pale as the deceptions that linger in this accursed dwelling.

The diary remains there—a mocking reminder of the sole comfort I once knew, during the time when Mom filled my empty existence with warmth. “I’m not in the mood to write,” I whisper bitterly. Ray and Rain have already left with Dad to parade at some decadent fashion event, leaving me imprisoned in this gilded hell of isolation.

I never chased after these events anymore. Tenuta Carla is my mausoleum; I once tried to escape its suffocating opulence, only to be corralled by guards like a doomed animal. I loathe them.

I slip into my threadbare pajamas and stagger to the kitchen. Nadia, our weary housemaid with a face etched in misery, stands there—a living relic, her hands trembling under the weight of flour.

“What are you making, Nadia?” I ask, a desperate hunger clawing at my insides.

“Pancakes,” she murmurs in a voice void of any warmth, a sound as flat and lifeless as the promises of my family.

Mom and I once baked these pancakes, laughing as we flung snowballs of flour into the air, our joy as fleeting as a dying ember. Now, I only taste the bitter tang of memories.

I clutch a bowl of cold, stale popcorn and trudge toward the door. Just as I'm about to leave, Nadia’s voice cracks with concern. “Did I do anything to offend you, madam? I—I’m sorry, please don’t tell your father.”

“Call me Abby,” I say, forcing a smile that fails to hide the storm raging inside. Telling Dad would only plunge us both deeper into this suffocating labyrinth of deceit.

She hesitates. “I'm sorry if I reminded you about her, Abby. She was a good woman.”

Her words sting like acid. I murmur, “Some things are beyond our control,” my voice hollow. Nadia’s eyes plead for the warmth that’s long since vanished.

I leave the kitchen, crossing the grand, opulent hallway where every step echoes the loss of innocence. The walls drip with a mystique that mocks my despair, each droplet a reminder of my fractured reality.

I switch on the TV—a horror channel to scar my numb heart, a desperate bid to escape the relentless torment of existence since Dad declared I was nothing. He’s confiscated every shred of my connection to the outside world— devices and everything. I’m an invisible ghost trapped in a mansion of misery.

Then, on the screen—a glimpse of Ray in a sharp gray suit, silver accents catching the light like cold, indifferent stars. Rain stands by Dad, their expressions a canvas of feigned concern as the room overflows with wealth and pretense. The cameras crowd around Dad, hurling questions like daggers.

A question slashes through the noise: “Sir, is it true that Beckham Carla has a secret daughter?”

“Secret?” My voice trembles, the word a shard of ice. Dad’s face contorts from confusion to a chilling indifference. Ray and Rain exchange furtive glances, their eyes veiled in a conspiracy of lies.

“Dad,” I cry, my voice raw, as if he could hear my pleas across the chasm of our broken family. “Please, don’t pretend I never existed!” I choke on the truth—I am the ghost that stole Mom, the bitter reminder of a past that refuses to die.

“It's only a rumor. I don’t have a daughter,” Dad declares, his tone slicing through me like a cold blade. “Why aren’t my brothers saying anything?” I scream, my voice fracturing into anguished cries that echo through the void.

Questions from the press morph into a relentless barrage—“Was your wife murdered? Is Abby Carla nothing but a myth?” Their words, sharp and unyielding, peel back the layers of my soul. Ray and Rain scramble to assist Dad, their performance a tragic farce, while I sink deeper into despair.

I tear my gaze away from the screen. Nadia watches silently, her eyes soft with pity. She rushes to my trembling form. “Abby, your family loves you more than you think,” she whispers, her words failing to stitch the wound.

I don’t hear her. I flee to my room, the sound of my sobs mingling with the echo of every unspoken betrayal—a symphony of pain designed to choke the light from my existence.

Each moment is a razor-sharp reminder that I am lost in this lavish prison, a casualty of secrets and shattered promises, where every heartbeat is a drumbeat in the funeral march of my soul.

I return to my room, my heart thumping like a battle drum against my chest. My hands shake as I furiously turn the pages of my diary, my thoughts loud with silent phrases. I take my pen, applying such pressure on the page that the tip almost breaks through it.

"I apologize, Mom." "It was entirely my fault."

Tears drip onto the ink, smearing my rushed handwriting. My breath is ragged, my chest rising and falling in erratic rhythm. I rip out a separate page and scrawl a final message:

"You’ll never have to pretend I exist anymore. Love, Abby."

My hands shake as I fold the paper and leave it atop my pillow, a silent farewell to the ghost of a life I once had. I scurry around the room, stuffing my diary and the tiny tote bag Mom got me with the only belongings I care about. My body moves on autopilot, my mind drowning in a single mantra:

“I have to leave.”

“They don’t care about me.”

“I don’t exist.”

I grip the bag tightly to my chest and lean my back against the wall, attentive to the sounds of the guards positioned outside. The mansion is a stronghold, its barriers designed to confine me, but I will not remain a captive any longer. Synchronizing my steps with the shadows, I glide through the corridor, quietly making my way to the rear exit. The hushed talks of the guards fade into the distance as I rush by them, taking advantage of the dense foliage for concealment.

A sudden pain pierces my foot. I suppress a scream as I look down—an ancient, corroded nail juts from the earth, embedded in my flesh. Blood trickles out, staining the ground below me. I grit my teeth and press on, disregarding the pulsating ache.

In the distance, the majestic residences of Tenuta Carla stand as quiet guardians, with their security teams monitoring the borders. I press myself onto a marble wall, heart racing as a flashlight moves perilously near. My breath halts in my throat when I unwittingly bump a decorative vase positioned on a windowsill. It shakes before falling to the earth.

The sentinels halt. "What was that all about?"

My heartbeat races, every nerve in my body ignited.

"Has to be the raccoons once more," one of them remarks dismissively.

I exhale a deep, unsteady breath and hold still until they pass by, then I dash towards the estate's magnificent gates. The sole escape is upward. The pointed wires at the top shimmer threateningly in the faint light, yet pausing is not an alternative. Disregarding the pain, I grasp the bars and pull myself up. The pointed metal jabs into my hands, cutting through my skin, yet adrenaline numbs the pain. My body shakes from effort as I kick my leg over, hitting the ground hard on the opposite side.

I run. The cold night air bites at my wounds, but I don’t stop. Not until the grand estate is a distant nightmare behind me.

I finally slow down when I reach the highway, lungs burning with exhaustion. Darkness swallows the streets, but a narrow alleyway ahead offers a sliver of refuge. I drag myself inside and collapse against the damp brick wall, my body screaming for rest.

Then, I hear it.

A struggle. Ragged breathing. The sickening sound of metal tearing through flesh.

I freeze.

Two men are positioned a short distance away, their shapes barely discernible beneath the faint streetlight. One of them—a massive figure—plunges a knife into the other's chest repeatedly, until the body falls lifelessly to the floor. My stomach twists painfully, bile coming up into my throat.

Then, the killer turns.

The alley is eerily silent as recognition slams into me. His face is seared into my memory—the same man who took my mother’s life.

Arzheal.