Page 30 of Grotesque Love

“I miss you,” I murmur, into the void. Unsure if I mean the way she was when she died, or the mother she was before Carver. Maybe both. “I wish I could remember…”

Part of me feels weird talking to a gravestone that clearly isn’t hers, but at the same time, it’s nice to be using my voice again. Who else do I have to talk to?

“I miss you,” I whisper to the wind. “I miss…you…”

My chest pangs as I swallow a sob and decide that now isn’t the time for apologies. Instead, I think about telling her about my day, my new life – but when I open my mouth, the words won’t come.

What is there to say? I sleep the days away or listlessly drift around among the dying plants in the solarium. What sort of life is this? I have no friends.

No belongings.

No hobbies.

No future.

No voice.

“I feel better today,” I say, swallowing.

The realisation that her death, thatCarver, has stripped me of my whole identity but especially my voice, makes me obstinate to use it. I cling to the daisy chains like a lifeline, seeking solace in their delicate simplicity.

“It’s beautiful here. When the sun sets.”

My words dissolve into a yawn, my eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion. The events of the day – more than I’ve managed to achieve in months – weigh on me like a leaden cloak.

“I want to be strong enough to make it to the beach one day.” Yawn. “It will be lovely in summer. Maybe I could go swimming…”

The sun must have dipped lower in the sky, as broken shaftsof fading light cast long shadows across the landscape, and I surrender to the pull of oblivion. The world fades away, and I drift into dreams, guided by the gentle lullaby of rustling leaves and distant birdsong. And for a fleeting moment, amidst the tangle of memories and forgotten dreams, I find peace, knowing that the gargoyle statue will keep me safe.

J

Breaking the chains that bind us has always been painful, and next to impossible. There have been many times over the years where I’ve wondered if our role was not to protect but instead a curse, where we must endure, watching the horrors that unfold before us.

The sun dips low in the sky, making the magic underneath my skin flex, but it’s not enough to free me. Yet.

Arianwen has slept peacefully for the better part of an hour after her exploration of the grounds, her chest rising and falling slowly in a tempo that soothes me. She seems calm. Serene. Present. Alive.

This chapel was beautiful once, with flagstone floors and stained glass windows that made the chamber light up like a rainbow at this time of day, colourful bursts stretching out and touching every corner of the sacred space.

The lady of the house back in 1835, Lady Eleanor, used to sit in here each morning after she took her daily walk through the gardens. She loved the windows and the peace they brought her, just like I did.

Ari reminds me of her sometimes, the gentle way she moves,the softness that makes me want to wrap myself around her small frame and keep her safe.

Lady Eleanor’s husband liked to drink and gamble in the local taverns, stumbling home after days away, always with his pockets empty, smelling like a whorehouse. At least, that’s what she would say when she saw him falling from the carriage, clothes askew. I have no idea what a whorehouse smells like, but I can imagine.

She was just his plaything, his prized possession to parade around and use to carry on their legacy. It was why, when the money started to dry up, he used her as collateral instead. The first time he gave her to someone else was in this very chapel. I still hear her screams sometimes, carried on the wind like a nightmare.

When their eldest child died in a hunting accident, that was truly what broke the lady of the manor. One night, she came to the chapel in her nightgown, barefoot, eyes wild. Her husband was in his rooms with his new mistress, and I watched from afar as the lady spent hours on her knees at the altar, praying.

God has no place here. The evil that lingers makes sure of it.

When dawn rose, she tried to burn down the chapel – cleanse it of all the memories and the spirits that haunted her waking moments. I was powerless to stop her, bound by the chains of my magic to watch as she barricaded the doors and herself inside to be consumed by the flames.

She’d learned that screaming changed nothing by this point, accepting her fate in silence, and that was much worse as I watched her be engulfed.

The Lord didn’t see the need to repair the small chapel, instead letting it be forgotten, his sins claimed by the weeds and wilderness. Until today.

Arianwen lies amongst the ruins, and I know that I won’t let history repeat itself. I will not let her die here.

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