Page 45 of One Last Regret

Now I’m beginning to panic. “Children! Amelia! Gabriel!”

“Mary!” Amelia calls back. “Help!”

“It’s killing us!” Gabriel adds.

I change direction and break into a dead run. The music rises to its enraged crescendo, and I flail my arms around and scream, “Children! Where are you!”

A loud clap of thunder shocks me into stillness. The power comes back on, and the lights return in the parlor. I stand still, arms outstretched, mouth open. The only sound now is the soft rain and the low hum of the refrigerator.

I’m dripping wet. I look down and find that I’m standing in a puddle formed from the water that streams off of me in rivulets. My hair is matted around my shoulders, and besides the water, there is dirt and debris on my slippers and on my hands.

I lift my head up and gasp. Sitting on the piano’s sheet music stand, also wet and covered in debris but with its notes and handwriting still clear is theVie Apres a la Mort.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

My heart pounds as I mop up the last of the water. A floorboard creaks, and I flinch and look toward the stairs, terrified that someone has seen me.

There’s no one there. I take a hesitant step forward and hear another creak. It’s my own footsteps making that noise.

I press my lips together and hiss, “Damn it. Damn it all to hell.”

I can almost hear Sean laughing at my vulgarity. Although I’m not sure he would laugh if he knew that I had an episode just now and decided to walk into a thunderstorm in my nightgown and slippers and pull a cursed musical number from a garbage bag so I could put it back on a piano.

I don’t dwell on that. If I think about it too much, I’ll panic, and I can’t panic right now. I’m clearly in a great deal more mental distress than I realized, but there are practical considerations to deal with before I can address that.

I take the mop back to the cleaning closet, then head to the kitchen. I'm going to destroy that blasted manuscript. Philippa was right. I should have done away with it a long time ago. I'm the only one who can destroy it because, for reasons I can't comprehend, my own damaged psyche is the reason it's still here.

I will destroy that manuscript, and then I’ll leave this house.I’mthe one who’s put this family through so much. I don’t know what happened to push me so far over the edge, but for the sake of the children, I need to leave this house. I probably need to leave this city and return home. My search for Annie has once again…

Later. I’ll figure all of this out later. Right now, I need to right the wrong I’ve committed, then shower, dress, pack my things,and leave. I’ll email Josephine and Etienne later and have them give my apologies to the children.

Goddamnit! Just when I thought I was doing some real good here!

I grab the kitchen shears and stock to the parlor, my jaw set firmly. I half expect to be struck by lightning when I grab the composition and start cutting it, so when the scissors bite easily into the paper, I hesitate a second.

Then I cut again. Then again. Then again.

With each shred of paper that falls to the floor, I feel myself grow bolder. I grin and even start to chuckle as the cursed composition falls to pieces under my hands. It's just a few sheets of paper, after all. Nothing to be afraid of.

When I’m finished, I gather the pieces and step to the front porch. The rain is pouring, and the wind has picked up, driving it into my face. I’ll have to grab a towel from the linen closet to dry off and mop some more water off of the floor, but that’s all right. It’ll be over soon.

I toss the fragments of paper into the air, and the wind carries them away until the rain drives them to the ground. A few fragments get caught in the bushes around the property, but most of them flutter over the fence and are gone.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My shoulders slump, and with that all-important task done, I finally feel weary.

I trudge inside and clean up the new mess I’ve made. It’s after midnight by the time I head upstairs, shivering and still soaking but dry enough that I don’t track wet footprints behind me.

When the warm water of the shower hits me, I sigh with relief. Why can’t my fugues lead me to relaxing showers or comfortable nights in front of the fire?

That thought opens the can of worms I’ve kept tightly closed up until now. I am in serious mental distress. There can be nodoubt now that I’ve been sleepwalking, and evidently it’s my subconscious desire to torture this family and myself because I bring back the symbol of all of the tragedy this family has suffered. Part of me fears that I’m imagining things now, and I’ll wake to find myself on my knees worshipping the piece while chanting something demonic.

It's never been this bad. Not since Annie leaves. Not since I was hospitalized for a psychotic break.

This place. This city. Thishouse. It’s put more of a strain on me than anywhere else I’ve been. In the past, I’ve had episodes of sleepwalking or fugue states, but I’ve never endangered anyone under my care before. I’m endangering these children.

Tears come to my eyes. Those poor kids. I’m so glad I didn’t hurt them. If I had…

But I can stop here. Things didn’t getthatbad, so there’s no need to imagine it. I’ll get home. That’s the most important thing. I’ll leave this environment, and if I still have trouble, then I might need to consider professional help, much as I hate it.

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