A Visit Home
1416 Words
Ever since we returned to August’s estate, the atmosphere in the house had shifted. It was a subtle, chilling kind of change. The air was no longer overt malice of Martha’s taunts.
Instead, it was filled with terrified silence.
Martha no longer looked me in the eye. When she spoke to me, her voice was low, filtered through a layer of forced respect that sounded like gravel grinding together.
She bowed her head when I passed, her hands trembling slightly against her apron.
It was the behavior of a dog that had seen its pack members mauled and knew the alpha was watching.
Later, Luba told me how Fanel had carried out August’s orders in the cellar.
She described the screams that had bled through the floorboards and the way Sarah and Elena had been dragged out, broken and sobbing, forced to return to their knees to scrub the floors where they had once mocked my pain.
Even the bodyguards, men who had previously treated me like a nuisance or a piece of furniture, began to step aside when I approached. They faces turn into professional courtesy.
In the weeks that followed, August and I rarely crossed paths.
He moved through the hallways at midnight, whose presence I only felt by the scent of his cologne lingering in the foyer or the sound of his car pulling away before dawn.
He didn't seek me out to apologize, and I didn't seek him out to thank him.
We both knew the truth: he hadn't protected me because he cared for my well-being; he had protected me because I was his property and no one else was allowed to damage his investment.
As the days bled into one another, the physical evidence of that night began to fade.
The deep purple welts on my back melted into bruised yellows, then fainted into nothingness.
The ointment August had thrown at me worked, erasing the history of the ruler from my skin, even if it couldn't erase it from my mind.
Being forbidden from leaving the estate, I started occupying myself with chores.
I couldn't just sit and stare at the walls; the silence made the whirlpool in my head spin too fast.
I spent hours in the kitchen, reclaiming a small corner of the world that felt like mine.
"Luba..." I called out one afternoon, wiping my hands on a towel.
"Yes, Ms. Willow?" she asked, appearing at the doorway. She looked better now, though a small scar near her neck remained—a permanent souvenir of her loyalty to me.
"I want to go to the hospital," I said, my voice firmer than it had been in a long time.
I carefully packed a thermal box with the chicken dish I had spent the morning preparing.
The steam smelled of ginger and home. It felt like a life before the Harringtons.
"To see your grandma?" she asked, a genuine smile lighting up her face.
"Yes. Do you want to go with me?"
"Sure, Ms.!" She sounded breathless with excitement.
I felt a sharp pang of pity for her then. Like me, Luba and the others were free by definition, but working under August meant they were prisoners of a different sort.
They lived within the same walls, breathed the same stifling air, and their world was just as small as mine.
The trip to the hospital was a grim parade. Two bodyguards followed me silently, their presence a constant reminder of the leash around my neck.
Luba had been ready to step into the car with me, her eyes bright with the prospect of an afternoon away but Martha had appeared at the last second.
"Luba has work to finish," Martha had said, her voice devoid of its old bite but still commanding.
I didn't fight her. I knew that pushing back would only result in Luba suffering once I was gone.
I sat in the back of the car, clutching the food box to my chest. As we moved through the city, I stared at the people laughing, street vendors, the chaos of the world.
It all felt like a movie I was watching through a thick sheet of ice.
When we arrived at the hospital, I walked through the corridors with a sense of purpose.
The guards trailed two steps behind, their boots clicking rhythmically on the linoleum.
"You guys stay here," I said, stopping in front of my grandmother’s door.
"I’m going inside alone."
One of the guards, a man who had once laughed when I tripped in the garden, let out a dry, mocking snort.
"And what if you run away? We can't let you out of our sight, Ms. Willow."
I turned to him, my gaze cold and flat.
"If a person truly wants to run," I said, my voice steady, "there isn't a prison in this world that can hold her. You standing in a hallway won't change that."
I didn't wait for his reply. I slid the door open and stepped inside.
The room was quiet. My grandmother lay in the center of the bed, looking so small against the white sheets.
She looked like a bird made of glass. I walked over and touched her face—her skin was papery and cool, but her breathing was steady.
This is it, I thought. This is the reason I walk through the fire. This is the reason I tolerate August’s coldness and Martha’s cruelty.
Tears began to drop silently, hitting the hospital blanket.
I reached out and took her hand, her knuckles gnarled by years of hard work to keep us afloat.
"Grandma, I... I'm just glad you're alright," I whispered, leaning in close. I didn't want to wake her, but I needed her to know I was there.
"I'm doing okay. Don't worry about me."
"Silly girl."
I jumped, my eyes flinching as I looked up. Grandma was looking at me, her eyes clouded but filled with a familiar, piercing love.
She slowly raised her hand, her fingers trembling as she reached up to brush a tear from my cheek.
"Grandma! Did I wake you up?" I asked, trying to sniffle back the sob.
"Silly," she repeated, her voice sounding exhausted.
"I was awake the whole time. I heard you coming."
"Grandma, I'm sorry. I came so late to see you," I sobbed, pressing her hand to my face.
"I know... you must have been working non-stop to pay for all this," she said, gesturing vaguely at the expensive machines surrounding her.
"I’m sad that I’m burdening you. You should be out living your life, finding someone who loves you. It would have been better if I’d just d—"
"Grandma!" I cut her off, my hand moving to cover her lips.
"Don't ever say that. Don't you ever say it."
I looked at her, my breath hitching in my chest.
"You are the only reason I still feel the need to live. Your face is what keeps me going when the house gets too dark. Your memories are the only thing that fuels me when I’m at my lowest. How can you talk so easily about leaving me behind? I’d be alone, Grandma. Truly alone."
Her eyes filled with tears that tracked into the wrinkles of her skin.
"What good karma did I do in a past life to have a granddaughter like you?"
"Maybe saving me was one of them," I said, forcing a small, watery smile to lighten the air. I reached for the box on the bedside table.
"Oh, look! Taa-daa! I made your favorite—ginger chicken. And don't worry, I checked with the doctor. He said as long as it's not too salty, you can have some."
I helped her sit up, adjusting the pillows behind her back.
For a few minutes, the Harrington manor didn't exist. August didn't exist.
There was just the steam from the chicken, the quiet strength of the woman who raised me, and the temporary illusion that I was still the girl I used to be.
I fed her small bites, watching her chew slowly.
"It's good, Spring," she whispered, patting my hand.
"You always were the best cook."
I smiled. Then, you have to finish all of this.
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- Writer
