Page 55 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream
I take a deep breath and turn to her. “Is Andreas here?”
She blinks a little too rapidly and straightens. “No, signora.”
I swallow and try again. “Do you know when he will be home?” I realize I don’t even have a cell number for my new husband, or an email address. I have no way of contacting him. I could reach him through Cristiano somehow, but that’s not the point.
“No, signora.”
Impatience snaps at my heels. “Do you knowwherehe is?”
Her shoulders drop and she gives me a resigned look that tells me this conversation is about to end here. “No, signora, I do not know where he is. I never know where he is and I do not wish to.”
I elongate my spine and turn to look out of the window. “Thank you for showing me around.”
“You’re welcome, signora. I will leave you to rest. Chef Alessandro will prepare dinner for six p.m. so please make your way to the dining room then.”
I close my eyes, not caring that she can’t see them.
I’ve never felt so many conflicting feelings in such a short space of time before. Finding a prominent one to hook myself onto is a challenge.
I’ve felt lust and need and the high that comes with an earth-shattering orgasm. I’ve felt shock, despair and shame. Guilt, embarrassment, helplessness. Then awe and hope and optimism, which, with the realization I do not know where my husband is or how to reach him,have come crashing down like a brick house in a hurricane.
When Viola has closed the door to the master suite, it hits me again just how alone I am. And now that I am alone, my body begins to tingle.
My go-to release is front and center of my mind. I need to distract myself, and fast. My gaze darts around the room until it lands on the purse I must have left by the door. I reach inside and pull out my cards.
Dropping to the floor, I shuffle them quickly. I try to breathe some calm into my bones. Energy plays such a strong hand in the spreads but it’s hard to keep my energy now from feeling erratic and scattered.
I go for a three card spread then turn them over, one by one, my gaze flitting across each. And my heart sinks. They don’t make any sense. There’s no linkage between them, no theme, nothing in the cards that points to what I’m going through. I know my energy isn’t the best right now, but how can the cards go from depicting total abandonment, which has materialized pretty accurately, to disconnected images that don’t point to anything clear?
I slump backward as though the last drop of hope has seeped from my skin. Tarot has been my life-line for so long, but it’s failed me when I’ve needed it the most. I slowly pack the cards away. I’ll try again later when my energy isn’t so fractious.
Standing once more, the tingling has intensified, and this time, I don’t fight it.
I walk to the bathroom, half-hoping I might find arazor in one of the cabinets. Andreas’ shock and disgust at the sight of my scars echo in my rearview, but the louder sound is coming from inside my own head. I need to release the intense feelings contained within my skin.
I search the cabinets and find very little. It even looks as though no one lives here—not even Andreas. I chew my lip and try to think. There’s always the kitchen. Knives are a staple and if Alessandro is to work his magic in there, he’ll be in need of some sharp knives.
I open the door and quietly make my way down the stairs. I don’t know where Viola is, but for all she knows, I could be searching for a glass of water. I walk into the kitchen, my eyes scouring the cabinetry for drawers where the knives are most likely to be kept. There are three along the wall. The first drawer holds plastic food containers. The second appears to be a cutlery drawer but the only items in it are spoons and wide, round-edged forks.
I go to open the third drawer, and when it doesn’t pull out like the other two I look more closely. Shame and embarrassment makes all the blood plummet from my head into my toes. There’s a shiny new padlock holding the drawer closed. Andreas has had all the sharp utensils locked away so that I can’t use them to cut myself.
I should be grateful to him for putting my safety first, but my initial and strongest reaction is hate. Yetagain, he’s removed the small amount of autonomy I have over my body. He’s taken the only tool I have to keep the shadows and the nightmares at bay. Panic rises up my spine. What if I can’t control my emotions? What if they overtake me and I crumble completely? What if I have a panic attack and no one is here to talk me down?
I coped in the Hamptons because although I left my kit locked in a desk at home, I always had access to the kitchen knives if I really needed to. But there, I was free, I was living my dream. I didn’t have constant daily reminders of Mama or the dark world my family has become embedded in.
I could be someone else—the kind of person who enjoyed sitting in peace reading her book; the kind of person who could throw herself into astrology for hours on end; and the kind of person who at least believed she could enrapture a man as beautiful and charismatic as Andrew Stone. I didn’t feel the familiar drowning despair that used to drive me to a blade.
But here, I’m trapped. I’m so far from free I could laugh out loud. My dream was crushed on the floor of a red wedding. And every second of every hour of every day, I am reminded of the dark world I now live in—the world that killed my mama.
And so it is that my thighs are burning with tightness and I have no way to release it.
Feeling slightly panicked, I wrench open cupboards. Heavy stoneware, steel pans… No porcelain plates, no glassware. More padlocks.What the hell?
I look over at the glass-fronted cabinets lining the walls, containing special occasion crystalware.
Padlocks.
How did I not notice the padlocks when Viola showed me around?
