HOME SWEET HOME
ELISE
“ELISE!!!!”
The raw, guttural shriek didn't just echo in the room; it tore through me, yanking my eyes wide open. My breath hitched, a desperate gasp catching in my throat, mirroring the frantic drum of my own heart. That sharp, disembodied voice, thick with a terror I knew too well, still vibrated in my ears, making my head throb. A cold, clammy rush of anxiety, like an icy wave, washed over me, leaving my forehead beaded with sweat. My tongue felt thick, a parched desert.
Slowly, I pushed myself upright, the soft mattress sinking beneath me. My gaze swept across the unfamiliar room, searching, confirming, needing solid proof that it was just a dream. A nightmare. Again. "Why can't it leave me alone?" The whisper barely escaped my lips, a plea lost in the quiet pre-dawn air. With a sigh that carried the weight of too many sleepless nights, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a welcome jolt, and headed for the bathroom.
I stood before the sink, the fluorescent light unforgiving. My reflection stared back—a woman with bruised shadows beneath her eyes, a stark testament to restless nights. I pulled my hair into a tight, almost painful bun, the simple act a familiar anchor in a chaotic world. The rhythmic motions of my morning routine followed, a practiced ritual that took precisely sixty minutes, a small island of control in a vast ocean of uncertainty. Today, of all days, demanded that rigid precision. I slipped into a crisp, tailored dress, its lines as sharp and unyielding as my own quiet resolve. Today was supposed to be my day.
Days ago, fueled by a quiet, desperate hope, I’d sent my portfolio—a collection of my designs, each stitch a fragment of my soul—to O’beauté, the undisputed titan of fashion in New York. The reply had arrived like a beacon in the dark: they loved my work. Today was the interview.
Nervous? No. I’d shed the luxury of nerves years ago. This was desperation. A hunger to carve out my own space, to become something undeniably mine. To secure this job, to build a life so profoundly independent that even if my parents, one day, decided I was no longer "good enough," it wouldn't shatter my world. I would be fine.
The gleaming facade of O’beauté loomed before me, a monument of glass and steel piercing the New York skyline. To the world, it screamed luxury, status, and unbridled wealth. To me, it bellowed a single, resounding word: independence. I took a deep, fortifying breath, the crisp city air filling my lungs. My hand reached for the heavy glass door, the threshold to a new beginning.
Then, my phone shrieked.
A cold dread seized me, instantly turning my palms clammy, my throat bone-dry. The caller ID glowed, a name that could curdle blood in my veins. Every past omission, every perceived mistake, every instance of falling short in their impossible standards, flashed through my mind like a terrifying, rapid-fire reel. Had I forgotten something crucial? Made a grave error? A frantic mental inventory yielded nothing. Still, the fear tightened its grip. With a practiced calm I didn't feel, I answered before the final ring.
"Hello, Mom," my voice, a hushed monotone, barely audible. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird, anticipating the blow I knew was coming. The sugar-sweet tone of her greeting, "Elise, my dear, how are you?" was a prelude to disaster. It was a voice that, in a kinder life, might have brought a smile to my lips. Here, it was a chilling siren's call, confirming the bitter truth: I would despise whatever came next.
"I'm fine. Did you call me just to ask how I am?" My words were blunt, perhaps bordering on rude, but the veneer of pleasantries was already cracking. I heard her sharp intake of breath, a theatrical sigh that signalled the end of her pretence.
"I need you to come back home. As soon as possible." Her voice, stripped of its false warmth, was now a cold, unyielding command. Horror etched itself onto my face. Home. The word echoed like a curse. It meant the place where I had simply survived, never lived. A gilded cage that had never once felt like a sanctuary.
"For what reason?" My gaze, fixed on the shimmering promise of O’beauté, remained defiant.
"Do I need to tell you the reason now?" Her tone was laced with exasperation. I tore my eyes from the building, the dream shattering around me. "Gary has already booked your tickets," she continued, her voice gaining an edge of finality. "Your flight is in four hours. I want you here by the evening."
The line went dead, yet I stood rooted to the spot, staring blankly at the glass edifice. The dream of independence, snatched away. Slowly, I lowered my phone and turned, the vibrant city suddenly feeling desolate. My apartment in New York, a temporary haven, now felt like a place I was fleeing. I packed only the bare essentials, the speed of my movements mirroring the frantic beat of my heart. Two hours, and I was ready to leave.
Gary, silent and stoic as ever, stood by the car. He relieved me of my bag with an efficient nod and opened the door. The backseat swallowed me whole. The drive to the airport was a blur of silence, broken only by the hum of the engine. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights blur, agonizingly close to my dream, yet miles away. What truly gnawed at me wasn't just the lost opportunity, but the chilling question: Why now? Why did they suddenly remember me?
Gary handled the airport formalities with practised ease. Soon, I was strapped into the plane seat, waiting for the roar of the engines. One hour, thirty minutes until takeoff. I allowed myself the oblivion of a short nap, a brief escape from the gnawing dread.
The ride from the airport back to the place they called home was, predictably, silent. Two hours dissolved into the familiar, oppressive landscape. And then, there it was: the Milton's Palace. Palace. The word tasted like ash in my mouth. My gaze fell upon the silent fountain in the sprawling garden, its still waters the only place in that entire, suffocating mansion that had ever offered a semblance of peace. I took a deep, bracing breath, steeling myself, and stepped inside.
The grand living room, a cavernous space of expensive, uninviting furniture, loomed before me. Then, a voice, warm and genuinely thrilled, broke through the suffocating silence. "You're here." her voice, flat and devoid of emotion, was more a comment than a greeting. I merely nodded, my gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the Persian rug beneath my feet. Meeting her eyes felt like inviting judgment.
And judgment was swift. Her gaze swept over me, a slow, meticulous appraisal from head to toe—an action that always made my skin crawl, leaving me feeling exposed and utterly inadequate. "You came from New York in these clothes?" Her voice dripped with thinly veiled disgust, as if my attire was a personal insult. I kept my eyes down, a slow nod my only response.
A disdainful scoff escaped her lips. "Wow! No matter how much I teach, you will always find a way to disappoint me, won't you?" I stood rooted to the spot, helpless. Knowing better than the futility of intervening.
My throat tightened, a lump forming that made it hard to swallow. This… this was my welcome. After years away, after dreaming of a future where I could be free, this was the harsh reality of "home." The pain, sharp and familiar, pierced through my carefully constructed emotional detachment. It still hurt.
"I... It's my design. I designed it myself." The words were a defiant whisper, barely audible, still not daring to meet her gaze.
"No doubt it looks so bad," she commented, her bitterness a venomous dart.
My heart hammered, a frantic drumbeat in my chest, threatening to burst. It was a physical ache, a raw wound reopened. "Go and get changed," she ordered, her eyes rolling in utter dismissal. "Can't see the daughter of Milton's in such cheap clothes."
I didn't hesitate. I fled, making a swift escape up the grand staircase to my room. The door clicked shut behind me, a flimsy barrier against the suffocating presence of the house. I flopped onto the familiar, too-soft bed, staring up at the intricate moulding of the ceiling. A bitter, ironic chuckle escaped my lips. "Home." Sweet home.
"Why on earth did she call me back here?" I whispered to the silent room, running through endless, terrifying possibilities. The words tasted like a curse on my tongue. "Home, sweet home."
