Page 29 of Alliance

THE HOUSE FEELS SAD ANDempty.

One week until Christmas, and even though we have a tree and decorations, our house feels anything but festive.

My parents watch me constantly. Their eyes find me no matter what room I go to, following me around like they’re waiting for me to fuck up. Since Davis’ show in our entryway, no one trusts me. All the liquor bottles have been moved and locked away. It seems that Davis’ comment about me being a drunk has been taken to heart.

I never really drank; I never enjoyed the taste of it despite Lily dragging me to parties constantly. Even after her death, I wasn’t drawn to the numbing sensation. But Grandpa’s death paired with my engagement was more than I can take.

The depression has paired perfectly with the swell of my anxiety. The two haven’t let me fully sleep, instead keeping me locked inside the prison of my head. Unable to rest, constantly overtaken with the swirling, endless thoughts.

The alcohol soothes the ache that is my brain. Placing a nice haze over the surface, keeping the thoughts from moving too fast. Instead, they’re sluggish, slowly trailing through the fog.

It’s the only time I can breathe. The only time I can lay my head back and calm the fuck down.

Every second of the day my brain is racing, for what I have no idea, but once the whiskey slides down my throat, I can take a breath.

I miss it already.

There’s a pale, white lace dress hanging on my closet door. The sight of which is overwhelming. If I have a panic attack over the dress for my engagement party, how the fuck am I going to walk down the aisle?

I haven’t seen Davis since that day in the entryway. My stomach convulses at the thought of seeing him tonight. I don’t think I can handle feeling his touch on my skin. Or faking that I’m not repulsed by him.

I breathe in, letting the air fill my lungs before I blow it through my lips. There are no options here, I have to make it through tonight. I have to put on a brave face, even though every fiber of my being is screaming not to.

But could I even get out of this? Even if I ran, if I abandoned my parents, then what? Where would I go, what would I do? I have nothing that is my own. Everything is tied to the Costello name, and while I want to say I would give it all up, I don’t know how to live without it. I’ve never even lived in a different house. Every year of my life has been spent in this room.

I feel like one of those spoiled rich kids that everyone sneers at.

But I don’t feel privileged in my heart.

Caged.

That’s how I would describe this feeling.

“Lana.” My mother’s fist hits against my door while she calls my name.

I don’t want to move from my spot on my bed. The idea of having to get up, see people, and talk makes my body ache. I groan in protest, rolling onto my side and facing away from the bedroom door.

My mother doesn’t wait to be invited in, instead she flings the door open and enters my room. I can’t see her face, but I’m sure it’s twisted in disgust as she peers around.

I haven’t left my room in nearly twenty-four hours. Most of that time has been spent in this bed, squirreled away under the covers trying to hide from everything.

Carlotta doesn’t get that, though. She expects me to straighten my shoulders and do as I’m told, like I’m a robot and not a human being.

“Lana,” she says again. “You need to shower. Start getting ready. We need to leave in an hour,” she huffs. I’m sure she’s fully dressed. She spends hours getting ready, perfecting her look. My mother is a vain character. She runs on complaints and envy, the kind of superficial woman you only see in movies.

As much as I don’t want to leave my bed, I can’t stand listening to my mother yap about getting ready and impressing people. So I roll from my blanket cocoon and head to my en suite bathroom.

She leaves me alone eventually after shouting how she wanted my hair done. I spend too much time in the shower, letting the scalding water burn my skin, praying the spray would melt me and wash me down the drain.

But I’m still here.

I spend less time on my makeup than I’m sure my mother hoped for, but I still look like a perfectly made mafia princess. I line my eyes with black, sharp wings jutting from the corners. My cheeks are a flushed pale pink, and a subtle rose color is applied to my lips. I heat up the curling wand, putting some loose spirals in my hair.

Finally, I grab the lace dress, pulling the white fabric over my head and zipping it up the side. I slip my feet into the soft pink heels and stare at myself in the mirror.

I don’t like the girl who looks back at me.

She looks too prim and proper. Too virginal and innocent.

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