Page 33 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

“I feel like a walking quandary,” I continue, more to myself than to anyone. “Keeping too many old secrets, too many pieces of a puzzle I’m afraid to finish.” My breath catches in my throat, the ache of it too familiar now. “I’m trying to find answers to questions that are bigger than me, and I don’t know if I should be.”

It was the promise of peace that saved her.

As the day goes by and night draws nearer, the room grows dim. The air, once filled with the sounds of daylight, now holds only the quiet pang of time slipping away. What felt like hours spent in this room now melts into eternity. Each passing second seems to stretch, as though the universe itself is waiting in silence. Yet outside these walls, the world moves on, indifferent to the agony unfolding within. I press my lips to her cheek, whispering goodbyeand promising I’ll be back soon. My heart hurts, a dull sting with each beat, as I pull away and turn to leave. And as I step away, the house awaits, hollow and cold, its presence daunting. Each room is a reminder of the memories that haunt its walls. And before I know it, I find myself back home, the silence stretching out before me, heavy with unspoken words. The air is thick with anticipation, as I wait in the shadows, knowing the conversation ahead will not be met with open arms.

I thought I had prepared for this conversation. I thought I had steeled myself against whatever harsh words might come. Callum’s absence had, in its own way, granted me a fleeting peace on most nights, but now that he’s here, the tension coils tighter within me. My hands move absentmindedly, tidying up a kitchen already spotless, the movements as much a distraction as a necessity. The clock ticks, its rhythmic pulse marking the time, and the hands of it creeping toward 10:00 p.m. I know he’ll appear soon—he always does, just as the night deepens. His job, he says, takes him away in the late hours, but I’ve never quite believed him. Something about the way he says it feels false, as though he’s hiding the truth behind a veil of half-lies.

I stand in the silence of the kitchen, my mind swirling, every sound in the house a warning. In some perfect world, Callum would simply disappear from my life, leaving me to breathe in peace. But in this world, nothing is perfect. So here I wait, for a confrontation I know is coming, one l dread all the same. He makes me feel like an inconvenience, a burden he cannot rid himself of. And yet, he never leaves. I don’t belong here, but I am anchored to this house, just as I am tethered to him.

His door creaks open, the sound of his footsteps unmistakable as he steps into the hall. The quiet is pierced by hispresence as he makes his way toward me. I feel the weight of his gaze on me before I even see him, like a heavy shadow stretching across the room. His eyes roaming over me lazily, the familiar scowl taking shape on his face.

“I have something to tell you,” I swallow, the lump in my throat thick and painful. My heart races, the fear creeping up my spine. He stops in front of me, his gaze sharpening, a hand running down his face in frustration.

“Make it quick. I’ve got other things to do.” he says, his voice laced with impatience. My fingers find their way into the pockets of my coat, fiddling nervously.

“I’m moving out this week,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can even process them fully. His eyes widen, then narrow, his lips twisting into a sneer.

“Where to, Odessa? With what money?” The words hit me like a slap, cold and painful.

“I have—” The words die in my throat as he stalks toward me. I brace myself, knowing what’s coming next. The violence in his eyes, the cruelty in his posture—it’s all I’ve come to know of him. But instead of the blow I expect, he only brushes past me without a glance heading straight for the fridge, his movements abrupt as he grabs a bottle of water, unscrews the cap, and drinks it as though I am not even there.

“Odessa,” he says my name like it’s something tainted, something disgusting. The sound of it curls around me, tightening its grip. Fear floods my veins, chilling me to the bone. “Where is your mother? Where are you hiding her?” His voice drops to a sinister whisper, the glint in his eyes wicked.

When I moved Mama to the Sanatorium, it was to protect her from him, to keep her away from the claws of a man who would stop at nothing to tear us apart. He hadonce almost signed the papers to have her taken off life support without my knowledge. I shudder at the thought.

“Where she is, is none of your?—”

The rest of my words are swallowed by the pain-filled sting of his hand across my cheek. My head jerks violently to the side, the burn of his slap searing into my skin like fire. The pain blooms instantly, fierce and blinding, leaving me momentarily adrift in a haze of confusion. I grip the counter, my fingers digging into the cold surface, holding myself upright as if the world might collapse if I let go. The darkness swells within me, but I fight to keep it hidden, refusing to let him see the tears that claw at my eyes, threatening to fall like broken promises.

“Speak to me properly,” he growls, his breath foul against my skin. “This little game you’re playing will end one way, and it won’t be pretty.” His face moves dangerously close to mine, his words hanging in the air like poison. “And that will be with you and Holly dead.”

I fight the tears, pushing them down, refusing to let him have that power over me. His words may wound me, but they will not break me. Not yet.

His hand snakes into my hair, yanking my head back with a harsh force. The pain is searing, like fire ripping through my scalp, and I can feel my roots snap, each strand of hair tearing free with a sickening crack. A cry escapes my lips, muffled by the raw agony that pulses through me, but there’s no release. I’m held, caught in his cruel grip, each tug pulling me deeper into a suffocating pain.

“How can you hate your own sister so sickeningly?” My voice is anguished.

“Pack your bags, Odessa,” he spits, each syllable gut-wrenching “Let’s see how far you go, before you come back.”

“You’ve never wanted me here,” I whisper, my hands frantic, grasping the edge of the counter, desperate for something—anything—to throw at him. My legs tremble beneath me, the weight of it all pushing me closer to collapse as the pain threatens to swallow me whole.

A bitter laugh slips from his lips, twisted and cruel. “I’ve wished you dead for days, but you’re more useful alive. But run, you’ll soon see what l have waiting for you.” He pushes me away, my back hitting the cold floor.

And just like that, he’s gone, disappearing out the door as if I mean nothing to him. I sit there, frozen in place, the weight of his departure settling over me. The room feels smaller, the silence louder. A scream rises in my chest, a raw, agonizing sound that I don’t let loose. I won’t give him that. Not now. Not ever.

But as I crumble there, alone in the dark, I know that peace will never come. Not for me. Not for Mama. The promise of peace that saved her is a lie—a cruel joke. I am left with nothing but the broken remnants of a life that is slipping away, piece by piece, and the knowledge that I will never truly escape.

Chapter 18

Wild Rose

Chasing the Darkness

Wilde once spoke of life with a clarity that pierces the soul.To live is the rarest thing in the world, for most merely exist.How those words resonate in my chest, a truth so potent it presses against me, like air I can scarcely inhale. The essence of joy, the unique radiance that once defined life, has long since vanished, like a star doused in the endless night. And in the wake of its absence, what remains is not light, but a flickering ember of desperation, a misguided hope clinging to the hollowed-out remnants of a once vibrant past. The purity, once so vivid, has withered, leaving only a cold emptiness and the gnawing hunger to uncover a treachery that stays in the shadows, stalking me through the darkened hours.

I made a promise to myself, a whispered vow set in stone, one that now weighs upon me like a burden too great to bear. I have walked a path that will surely lead me into the embrace of death’s cold, inevitable hand if I continue todig the grave of my own making. Swallowed whole by misplaced pessimism, I tell myself in the quiet moments, that Mama will wake up, that somehow, against all odds, she will rise from the edge of this chasm. But how can I deny the relentless certainty of medicine, the quiet finality in the words of those who wield science like a sword? A mantra they chant, a refrain so steady, yet one that my mind struggles to accept, refusing to believe that miracles—truly, wondrous miracles—are mere fables, empty stories we tell ourselves to fend off despair. But surely, miracles are not myths… right?

Some days, it feels as though I am sinking beneath the weight of an invisible ocean, drowning not in water but in a suffocating stillness that presses in from all sides. The ache of dissociation seeps through me, like a poison growing from the deepest recesses of my mind. It slithers outward, coiling itself around my thoughts, its venom leaving a trail of darkness in its wake. It blurs the line between what is real and what is a mirage,what is truth and what is lie, until the boundaries turn into nothingness. My mind becomes a hollow shell, empty, silent, save for the relentless hum of a noise I can neither name nor escape, pulling me further into a void where nothing matters, nothing exists, but the pull of my own fading consciousness.

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