Page 34 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

It is as though my very soul has been stained, a crimson tide that seeps through my veins, dripping from my fingers as if it were blood, not of life but of death. I can taste it, its metallic bitterness, burning, as though it’s etched itself into my very being. A scent so pungent, so overwhelming, that it clings to the air, choking me. It is a sickness, a storm that surges through me with a violence I cannot contain. Its winds are rough, shrieking through my thoughts and leavingmy body frozen, rigid, as though the very marrow of my bones has turned to ice.

My mind, once a sanctuary, now stands as a citadel of sorrow, a hollow place where melancholy reigns unchecked. It is a beautiful citadel, in the fleeting moments when happiness finds its way in, when the shadows of despair momentarily lift, and the world is bathed in a soft, golden light. But those moments are few, and the burden of endless months spent in grief drapes over me like an iron cloak, crushing, hurting. How is it that joy and sorrow have become so intertwined, so inseparable, that to separate them would be like trying to part the sky from the sea? How is it that I cannot speak of the emotions that fill my chest, emotions so vast they cannot be named, yet they consume me entirely?

Still, I long for something, anything, that might heal this brokenness, though even the word ‘healing’ feels foreign and distant, like a stranger knocking at my door, offering solace that I can never quite reach. I long to stitch together the tattered remnants of my heart, to mend the jagged, raw edges that have been torn apart by grief’s insidious thievery. You might think it is the physical pain that pierces the deepest, but no, it’s the merciless sting of words, words that wound with a cruelty so profound, they could make angels weep. The lash of his tongue, so venomous, so vile, that even the devil might shudder. For months I have borne the brunt of his malice, each word a knife driven deeper, leaving invisible scars that will never fade.

Yet, still, I endure. Still, I breathe. Still, I live. Or at least, I wait, wondering if living is the same as existing. Wondering if, perhaps, both are one and the same.

“You are not deserving of anything. ”

“You’re worth nothing, just like that worthless sister of mine.”

“You’re as useless as you are worthless.”

He might have been inebriated, but you know what they say, drunken truths are the realest thoughts of a person. His words have burned themselves into my skin, like poison seeping through my pores and leaving a miasma. I might have survived that car accident, but I lost a part of myself that day.

Metal is strong, but under terrible endurance even it can deteriorate and rot.

I should have left, but I could not.

The car comes to a jarring stop, yanking me from my thoughts. I’ve arrived.

“Welcome Miss Fontaine” the door is pulled open and I step out of the car, dusting phantom lint off my pencil skirt. “Hello Oscar.”

The picture square estate is just, if not more, mesmeric during the day than at night. The sun is beaming, a deceit to the slight hint of chill that is beginning to whisk us into wintry nights.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here Miss —”

“Odessa, please.”

“Odessa, it is a pleasure to have you back at the estate. Mr Moretti shall join you shortly but until then Mariah shall see to it you are settled and well acquainted with the house staff,” his words sound kind yet his eyes are doused. He steps aside and behind him stands a poised, petite woman who offers me a warm smile.

“Shall we?” She pushes open the double doors, and the scent of old money and sterile cleanliness clings to the air like a thick veil. My pointy heels click sharply against the marble tiles, the sound echoing off the walls,making my presence known. But it’s a lie, a façade that falters, because his eyes—scolding and relentless—sear into me. They trail my flesh with a burning desperation, bruising me without a single word. My body bends, yielding to his unspoken demand, a submission not born of request, but of force. He hasn’t graced my eyes yet, but his oppressive presence wraps around me, a crushing force l feel around me.

I nod.

I’m introduced to the staff, and even when I painfully blur away his aggravating lurking manner of a taunting ghost, I find my sights wandering away from outstretched limbs and greeting eyes. It’s like a growing fire. The more wood you add, the less you can tame it, and so is this feeling flourishing in the pits of my gut.

It’s such a pity to be a puppet with no strings attached. To want to break your will to pleasure another, yet in doing so, I feel my own kind of ecstasy. A spark fueled by a reckless and vicious addiction. Sebastian wouldn’t have to lift a finger and I’m certain I would fall to my knees and crawl to him.

It’s such a pity to crave the rage of a thousand furious women. To watch my dignity sink down a drain all because of a man. Even with thorns coiled around my neck, thirsting for my blood, I strut with grace, yet when night falls, I spread my legs for him, and god does he relish in my vulnerability.

It’s such a pity to desire his madly sins when I’m not a saint myself. To beg for a mercy we both know he can not offer and to watch him worship me on his altar like the only god he’ll ever pray to.

From the grounds to the interior, Mariah doesn’t miss a beat. The estate is like a maze that could house an entire football team, if not two. And just the amount of gold andmarble coating the walls tell just how filthy the Moretti’s wealth is. Towering columns, sweeping staircases and numerous balconies overlooking a vast forestry make up half of this grande intricate architecture. Its elegant chandeliers and ornate furnishings exude sophistication, a clear contrast to the pig stain I was living in.

I almost feel like royalty with the majesty and splendor caging me. From the gardens outside to the luxurious interior, this place puts to shame the House of Windsor.

“Your feet must be in dire need of warm water.” We reach another set of double doors that she pushes open “I had my staff run you a bath.”

The room feels light and spacious, centered around a grand canopy bed beneath towering epoch windows. A glass door leads to a private balcony, inviting the outside in. Cream and dark magenta wall patterns complement the white rug and small plush couches scattered about, while a few carefully chosen furnishings add warmth to the space. Oil paintings grace the walls, granting the room with a touch of Victorian elegance.

“If you need anything, please do let me know. Lunch will be ready in a few, would your perhaps like to eat in the garden or the –”

“The garden sounds delightful, thank you.”

“Might you have something of preference for your meal?”

“Surprise me.”

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