Prison Bird
1139 Words
At six in the morning, Dante left the villa. Before stepping out, he bent down and pressed a kiss to her temple. His voice was low and gentle.
“I’ll be back early. If you need anything, call me. Don’t stand alone in the snow anymore. Your body’s just barely holding up—be good.”
The moment his lips touched her skin, a jolt like electricity surged through Alessia’s entire body.
She forced down the instinct to recoil and nodded stiffly.
In other words, she sneered silently, I’m not even allowed to go into the yard now.
No chains, no orders—just a single word of “concern” was enough to strip away her last shred of freedom.
This was his habit. Wrapping iron hooks in a velvet glove, weaponizing “care,” disguising commands as love.
And she had learned how to survive in silence.
After Dante left, the villa quickly fell back into its usual suffocating silence.
The servants’ footsteps became lighter, their voices bright and chatty as they swept the snow into neat arcs around the courtyard. Some plucked frost-covered ivy from the windowsills; others turned on the kitchen radio, filling the air with old-school jazz.
Only she remained, sitting by the window.
Alessia curled up in a high-backed armchair, draped in a thick wool shawl, her hands and feet numb and stiff with cold.
She stared out at the people moving freely beyond the glass, as if they belonged to another world.
A blackbird leapt from the eaves, skimming the snowy ground, circling the courtyard a few times before flying off.
Suddenly, a reckless thought struck her: If I jumped from the second-floor window, would the snow catch me like that bird and quietly swallow me up?
She could even picture the scene.
Blood seeping into white snow. The smiles frozen on the servants’ faces. The music stopping abruptly. Even the dogs in the garden falling silent.
Let them all lose their smiles.
She closed her eyes and briefly entertained the fantasy.
But seconds later, she opened them again, curling a bitter smile.
She couldn’t die.
Not yet.
Dante had left her phone behind. It wasn’t taken from her—but she knew it had been implanted with surveillance software long ago. Every number she dialed, every message sent, even every name she lingered on in her contacts was monitored in real time.
Yet she still stared at that phone as if it were a half-open window.
You know there’s a cliff outside. But you keep pushing it open, over and over.
Before dusk, she retreated to her room and powered on her computer.
This was one of the few realms she still controlled.
In the virtual room of the streaming platform, she logged in under a fake ID, turned on her microphone, and read stories aloud to an empty chat.
No gifts, no comments.
But she kept reading.
Steady, calm. Reciting tales she didn’t truly care about, just so—maybe, just for a moment—her voice could reach out.
Even if only one person was listening, it would be enough.
That listener wasn’t Dante.
He hated her “meaningless self-indulgence.”
“You never loved me,” he said. “You just wanted me to notice you.”
“Well, you noticed,” Alessia whispered, mocking herself.
Yes, as a child, she had indeed wanted to win his attention.
When she was eight, her father first sent her to the old family estate of the Dante clan.
“Win his favor,” her father ordered coldly. “Don’t forget your name’s Moretti. You’re not here to play.”
Dante had been even colder then.
Polite and quiet, courteous to everyone except her—whom he regarded with thinly veiled disdain. He knew she was a pawn, a potential threat.
But she didn’t understand.
She had been placed deliberately by design: sent to his house for tutoring, seated beside him in class, always receiving his “gifts” at birthday parties—greeting cards penned by her father’s assistants.
She resisted at first.
But soon, she was caught in the snare of that boy’s rare moments of silent tenderness.
Unlike other kids, he never chased or shouted; he sat quietly in the corner reading or studying chess.
She forced herself to be “interesting”—singing, dancing, telling jokes—just to win a smile from him.
“You want my attention?” he asked one day, his voice flat and emotionless.
She nodded, cheeks flushed.
He tilted his head, cold and calm.
“You’re like a barking dog that won’t shut up.”
That shattered every childhood fantasy she had about “liking” someone.
So she changed tactics.
They fought, stole his car keys, and once swerved suddenly on a joyride, nearly crashing into a reservoir together.
The clearest memory was the night of a fierce argument at a family banquet, when she shoved him.
He fell from the second-floor balcony, landing in the bushes below.
He almost died.
When he woke up, lying cold as ice in a hospital bed, he said,
“Do you know how much debt your father’s left on the Valtierri family?”
Now, the words had changed.
“Your brother is in my hands.”
Alessia had never felt more aware that she had never won.
Every struggle is met with even colder, crueler retaliation.
But now, it all felt blurred.
Like glass covered in dust—light still passing through, but never warming her heart again.
Late at night, her head pounding.
Painkillers are all gone. She dared not ask the servants for more.
She sat on the cold bathroom tile, knees drawn up, her head resting against the chill of the wall.
Echoing in her ears was the question:
“You like me, don’t you?”
She suddenly lifted her head and slammed it hard against the wall.
“Like you?” she whispered, mocking herself. “Back then, I thought you’d save me.”
Another bang.
“You did save me… took me out of my family, only to throw me into your prison.”
Her breath shaky, sweat beading on her forehead.
“If my brother dies…” her voice trembled but held stubbornly, “I’ll have no weakness left.”
After saying it, she realized what she’d thought.
Silence. Her lips quivered.
What am I thinking? She whispered. He’s my only family now…
Suddenly, she cried.
Silent tears.
Not from pain, not from fear—but from the terror of that fleeting thought.
How could she wish her brother dead?
How could she…
But it was the darkest truth buried deep inside her.
Not lack of love—too much pain.
Only if he were gone would she no longer have to live in humiliating submission.
- Writer
