Chapter Seven - A Scent I Remember
1247 Words
“You are a burden.”
Dad’s voice came from everywhere.
I was back in the living room, barefoot on the marble floor with rainwater dripping from my hair. The broken glass was gone. The guests were gone. Mom was gone.
Only Dad remained.
He moved toward me slowly, his green eyes bright with anger. The gold flecks in them looked darker than mine, almost black.
I backed into the wall.
“Please,” I whispered.
He smiled like he had been waiting for that.
“You always make me look weak.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You are always sorry.” He took another step. “Sorry you were born wrong. Sorry you cannot do anything right. Sorry you make your mother cry.”
The words found the softest places inside me. They knew exactly where to land because I had heard versions of them my whole life.
I tried to cover my ears.
It did not help.
“You think leaving will save you?” Dad asked.
The wall behind me disappeared.
Suddenly, I was falling.
My stomach dropped. Cold air rushed past me. Below, the gates of our house stood open, and Mom was on the other side of them, reaching for me.
“Arielle,” she called.
I reached back.
Dad’s hand closed around my wrist.
I woke with a gasp.
For a few seconds, I could not move.
My heart slammed against my ribs. My hands were damp. The room was dark except for a lamp glowing beside the bed, and shadows stretched across the walls in shapes my half-awake brain did not trust.
I pressed one hand to my chest and forced myself to breathe.
In. Out.
Again.
The dream was over.
It had to be.
But Dad’s voice still lived beneath my skin. The words stayed behind after I woke, like smoke caught in fabric.
You are a burden.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
No.
I was not going to let him keep speaking through me.
Not tonight.
When my breathing finally slowed, I noticed the bed.
It was not mine.
The mattress was firmer than the one in my room at home, but softer than the floor where I had fallen asleep. Heavy blankets covered my legs. The pillows smelled clean, faintly of cedar and rain.
I looked down.
I was wearing an oversized navy shirt.
For one awful second, panic snapped through me. I grabbed at the collar, searching for an explanation.
Then I saw Mom’s cardigan folded neatly on the chair beside the bed.
My clothes from earlier were draped over a wooden drying rack near the fireplace. Her shoes sat beneath it. A small travel bag rested beside the door.
Mom had changed me.
The realization loosened something in my chest.
I was not alone.
I climbed carefully out of bed. My muscles ached, especially my shoulder and cheek, but the pain had dulled into a deep soreness. A glass of water waited on the bedside table beside two tablets and a handwritten note.
For the pain. Drink water. I am downstairs. Lock the door if you need to. Love, Mom.
My vision blurred.
I touched the paper with my fingertips.
The handwriting was shaky. Mom’s letters usually looked graceful, each one clean and controlled. These trembled.
She had been scared.
She was probably still scared.
I swallowed the tablets with half the water, then looked around the room properly.
It was larger than mine had been, but not in the cold, showy way Dad liked. The walls were dark wood. A fire glowed low in the stone hearth. Books filled a shelf near the window, and a thick rug softened the floor beneath my bare feet.
Nothing matched perfectly.
A chair had a worn armrest. A stack of old magazines leaned crookedly beside the fireplace. Someone had left a mug on the desk with a ring of dried tea at the bottom.
It looked lived in.
That almost hurt more than the nightmare.
My room at home had been neat because it was never allowed to become mine.
This room looked like someone had been allowed to exist inside it.
Rain still tapped against the windows, but it sounded farther away now. I crossed the room and pulled back one heavy curtain.
Beyond the glass, trees climbed over a dark hillside. There were no neighboring houses. No streetlights. Just rain, forest, and a long stretch of gravel road disappearing beneath the pines.
We were nowhere near home.
Bits of the escape came back in flashes. Mom pulling me through the back stairwell. The laundry room smelling of detergent and stone. My suitcase bumping against the steps. The garden door opening onto rain. Malcolm waiting beside a SUV with the engine running.
I remembered looking back once.
The house had glowed through the storm, every window bright. Behind one curtain, a shadow moved. I could not tell whether it was Dad or his guests. I knew that if I stopped, I would never make myself leave.
I got in the car.
I did not remember the drive after that. Only Mom holding my hand and the strange certainty that someone had been watching the road behind us.
A soft knock came at the door.
I froze.
Every muscle in my body locked.
The second knock was quieter.
“Arielle?”
Mom.
My breath shook loose.
“Come in.”
She opened the door only wide enough to slip through. She had changed into a gray sweater and loose pants, but she still looked exhausted. Her hair had fallen around her shoulders. I could not remember the last time I had seen it down.
She saw me standing and hurried over.
“You should be resting.”
“I was asleep.”
“Not enough.”
I wanted to tell her she sounded like herself. The real version. The one who used to tuck blankets around me when I had a fever.
Instead, I asked, “Where are we?”
Mom hesitated.
“The Valtierra house.”
The name sent a strange jolt through me.
“Damon brought us here?”
“His driver did. Damon met us after.”
My gaze dropped to the shirt I was wearing.
Mom noticed.
“He asked one of the staff to bring dry clothes. I chose that one because it was the only thing that looked soft.”
“It is his.”
“Yes.”
A rush of heat climbed into my face, which was ridiculous. I had bigger problems than whose shirt I was wearing.
Still, I folded my arms over it.
“Where is he?”
Mom looked toward the hall.
“Downstairs. He wanted to make sure you woke up before he left.”
“Left?”
“He said he has to return before your father realizes what happened.”
Panic flared. “He is going back there?”
“He has reasons,” Mom said quietly. “I do not understand all of them.”
Neither did I.
The growl downstairs. His eyes turning gold. The way Dad had looked at him with something close to fear.
Maybe Dad had not been the most dangerous person in the room after all.
My phone buzzed on the bedside table.
One message.
From Damon.
Do not come downstairs until I tell you to.
Before I could ask Mom why, a low growl rolled through the hallway outside my door.
This time, it was close.
- Writer
