Page 10 of Grotesque Love

They pull away, and it isn’t until I hear the door click shut that I allow my tears to fall silently, trickling down my cheek before soaking into my pillow.

Somehow, I manage to snatch a few more hours of sleep but I wake not long after the sun has risen to find a plate of pancakes, a mug of tea and a handful of wildflowers in a small vase waiting on the dresser for me.

This time, it takes a lot less effort to get out of bed, my steps surer and more steady. The floorboards remain relatively quiet as I move about the room, cracking the curtains slightly to let in some light before I eat.

A gasp slips from my lips when I try to open the window and find it locked. There’s no sign of a key.

I’m sure the window wasn’t locked before. I remember…

What do I remember? Can I trust my memories?

My stomach grumbles, distracting me, and my mouth waters when I see that the pancakes are drizzled in syrup. It looks and smells delicious, but it isn’t the sort of food Carver would normally let me eat. Especially not now. He believes in eating healthy, bland food. Usually all I get for breakfast is unseasoned porridge. I hate it.

But pancakes I love. I don’t have many memories from when I was younger, but when I was little my mum would make them for me every single weekend. It was our little tradition. No matter what happened or where we were, we had pancakes on Sunday morning, and I could never get enough. Once she met Carver, that all stopped though.

Returning to bed with the plate, I get stuck in, a soft groan escaping me as I savour it. After the first heavenly bite of pancake, nostalgia washes over me. Memories of those lazy Sunday mornings at the kitchen table with my mum flood my mind, the radio would be on low in the background, her laughter filling the room as she flipped pancakes on the griddle. Before Carver. The taste of syrup and butter mingling on my tongue brings a bittersweet ache to my chest.

As I devour my breakfast, savouring each mouthful, I can’t shake the feeling that something is amiss. The locked window, the missing key, the pancakes – it all feels like pieces of a puzzle Ican’t quite put together. Pieces that don’t actually belong together.

I take in my surroundings with newfound wariness. The sunlight filtering through the curtains casts a warm glow over everything, giving the room a false sense of security. But beneath the surface, unease simmers like a pot about to boil over.

Finishing the last delicious bite of pancake, I push the plate aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The floorboards creak beneath my weight as I stand up, every sound magnified in the stillness of the room.

I make my way to the window once more, determined to unravel the mystery that seems to shroud this place. The window remains locked, stubborn and unyielding. I search for any sign of a key nearby but find nothing. Frustration bubbles up inside me as I rattle the lock with increasing urgency. I’msureI opened the window last night. I can recall the soft breeze on my face as I bathed in the moonlight…

Rubbing my temples, I sigh. Bringing my mug of tea with me, I make my way very slowly downstairs, to the solarium. It’s the only room in the house where I don’t feel trapped, the glass walls offering me the illusion of freedom. Placing my tea down on a small carved table next to the chaise lounge, I push open the doors – the ones I used to run out onto the moors the other day? Week?

When the cool spring air makes breathing easier, I settle down on the chaise with a throw and watch the world go by as it spins on its axis.

“Ah, Ari, you’re awake. And out of bed.”

Carver’s voice cuts through the silence, startling me. I turn to face him. He’s leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed, an amused smirk on his face, but his eyes are hard and cold as they move over me. The late afternoon sun streaming in warms my skin and I become conscious that I’m only wearing my thin nightdress.

Carver is a man who most people consider handsome. He’stall, with broad shoulders and a toned body. He keeps fit by eating healthy, playing squash at his club weekly, and running almost every day. But there’s something…unsettling about him. His angular face, with his sharp cheekbones and almost pointed nose alongside his dark eyes, make me uncomfortable. It’s like he has no softness to him. Everything is hard lines and harsh angles. And he’s always watching. Watching and waiting like a hunter, examining its prey.

I blink.

How long have I been sitting here, staring out at the landscape? It was barely dawn when I opened the doors to let the air in. The half finished mug of tea in my hands is now stone-cold. Hours must have passed, but it feels like I only blinked and then we were here.

“You’ll catch a chill with those doors open, dear,” Carver chastises. “But don’t you worry, I’ll take care of it. And you.”

As Carter strides towards the doors, looking authoritarian in his three piece suit, hair slicked back, I feel sick.

The pancakes from earlier are now like lead in my stomach as I push to my feet and step towards him. I didn’t deserve the sweetness from this morning, the memories. It was my fault she was gone. I would never ask for pancakes again, but he mustn’t close the doors. I won’t be able to breathe. I need the air. I need the breeze. The window in my room was locked. This is all I have.

He closes the doors firmly, ignoring my whispered, “No.”

I don’t need him to take care of me.

I need air.

I need the doors and windows open.

No sooner do I have that thought and my knees are buckling. Carver springs into action, racing forward to catch me. The warmth from his body burns me through my nightdress as his warm hands grab hold of me.

“Ari, you’re overdoing it, love.” He guides me back to the chaise lounge and pulls a familiar bottle out of his pocket. Hefrowns at me and clicks his tongue in chastisement. “You’ll never get better if you keep pushing like this. I’m worried about you.”

I don’t tell him that I don’t need to get better because I’m not ill. I swallow my protests and my suggestions that I might feelbetterif I was allowed out once in a while, just like I swallow the pill he pushes between my lips.

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