Page 37 of Light As A Feather
“What happened?” Her confusion is genuine as she takes in her surroundings.
That was just the start of it. I never could have imagined how much worse it would get for her. And now here we are, sixteen years later. It’s gone on too long. It’s time to set her free.
But first, we both have shrouded parts of our past that we need to unveil.
Iwant to feel validated in my anger, but my frustration melts away as I take in the bedroom. Deep navy walls envelop everything in a cool cocoon. The black and green bedding is luxurious and inviting, accented by dark throws. Gothic candelabras and art adorn the walls with touches of heavy brass. It’s gorgeous, reminiscent of something I would have curated myself if I’d ever had a place I could truly call home.
It’s a cruel tease.
“Fuck,” I cry out as the culmination of all my frustration and an undeniable ugliness swells within me. There’s no mistaking his predatory energy at my back. Sick satisfaction rolling off him waves at my distress. My watcher is silent, but he may as well be a serpent in my ear, its tongue coaxing the frenzy of negativity to fruit in my mind.
“After everything you sacrificed, they were here together, doing who knows what.” Ivan slinks further into the room as he walks along the edge of the bed, hand gliding over thebedding. “Do you think they slept in this bed together?” There’s a salacious lilt to his words.
“No. I believe him.”
He clucks his tongue at me, my shoulders rise, and my fingers dig into the wood of the dresser. “Are we really still so naive?” He cages me with his towering figure. “What? They just lived under the same roof? Two best friends, years of sexual tension and undeniable chemistry boiling beneath the surface while they lay in the lonely silence night after night with just a single staircase between them…”
“Shut up,” I hiss as the jealousy he stirs within me thickens and fills me with something toxic.
“Who crawled into whose bed first, do you think? Whose lips crossed that forbidden barrier most eagerly?” A gust of cold air envelopes my ear as he leans closer. “So many years together, so in sync, they probably come at the same time.”
“Stop,” I nearly growl as I turn toward him. The dim lighting casts sinister shadows across his face that I could get swallowed up in, but I don’t let him intimidate me. It’s there in the satisfaction that glitters in his eyes that I find a way to keep myself from spiraling down this path. “I’ll give it to you, you had me going for a minute there.” In my heart, down to my very core, I know I can take Hawthorne at his word. Ivan might be able to exercise his influence over me for short periods of time, might be able to make me act erratic when he puts enough intent behind it, but this I know, and it guides me back off the ledge. “Enjoy this hold on me while it lasts because your time is almost up.”
“Like I said, so naive, Little Dove. But believe what you must.” He has the nerve to actually imbue pity into his gaze as he looks down at me.
“One of us is living in a fantasy.” Pushing off the dresser, I walk through him. I almost make it out of the room, but he throws another taunt over his shoulder just as I open the door.
“Go ahead and try to avoid me all you like, let him defile you for the sake of buying a few hours of romantic delusion, but one of us is going to tell him the truth. Whether that’s me or you, is your choice.”
I have no idea what he means by trying to avoid him and buy more hours—if I knew I had any control over when and where he plagues me, my life would have played out much differently—but he’s intent on slow-dripping my most guarded secrets in a painful display of his upper hand.
I can’t stand to be around Ivan for one more second, but I take my time seeking out Thorne, exploring the house on my own. It’s dark, but not in the terrifying, oppressive way—in the calming, comforting sense, like the house has been holding its breath for my return. I could walk these halls blindfolded and know exactly where I am by the creak of the floors.
As I explore more, my influence is even more apparent. Of course, it’s a culmination of the two of us, but there’s so much of me woven into every square foot of the spacious home. To my surprise, that even applies to his old bedroom.
Stepping inside, I’m overwhelmed by the glorious transformation it’s undergone. It’s nothing like I remember because, like everything else in the house, it’s been completely redecorated. No. Redecorated is too bland a word for the work Thorne has done.Reimagined. Yes, that’s a better way to describe the meticulous detail that’s been invested in curating this space that is straight out of my own cozy gothic dreams, the one I’ve been too afraid to hope for the last few years.
The large triangular window that overlooks the lush landscape has been updated with gorgeous stained glass in an eclectic combination of golden and garnet pieces that frame the edges while gilded iron shines along the individual panes. It’s a work of art in and of itself.
Inspecting the shelves upon shelves of books, I can appreciate the craftsmanship of the collector’s editions, but other than a few gothic classics, none of them particularly stand out to me. I’ve never been much of a reader—other than the assigned literature for school—but Hawthorne and his dad were. I guess it never stuck for me because it’s kind of hard to concentrate when your parents are fighting twenty-four-seven, and when you get a reprieve from that, you’re visited by dead people who just want to be seen after too long of being invisible, or worse, plagued by electric sounds that you can’t escape. That’s why my hobbies were always based on getting myself out of the house while also keeping my mind and body busy—it’s no wonder I became so obsessed with foraging and bone art when we moved here.
It’s a pleasant surprise as I look around and find that Hawthorne got his hands on my collection. Painted skulls peek out of the shelves, while suncatchers embellished with tiny vertebrae are strung up. Looking at some of my first stabs at bone art, it’s hard not to cringe, but I can appreciate how far I’d come when I was still creating. Caring for the dead—both animal and human—used to give me purpose. But then Ivan turned what I used to see as a gift into a punishment.
And thenI had to leave it all behind.
I’m impressed with how many they held onto in my absence. Honestly, after so long of being on the road, constantly staying in strange places, it’s bizarre to be surrounded by familiarity.
Thorne always supported my interests, my little dreams that I was always too afraid to voice because I didn’t want to get my hopes up. But he made them happen in small, meaningful ways, like when he’d help me sell some of my creations at markets.
Of course, I’d also go to his soccer games, especially the ones his parents couldn’t make. Even though the sun was always painfully bright and I’d have to wear my headphones to drownout the jarring noises of whistles and shouting, I would still be there in those stands cheering him on. Okay, ‘cheering’ might be a bit of a stretch, but I showed up in my own way.
We always did for each other.
I’m nearly to the door when the taxidermied fox in the corner finally catches my eye. The shock of it causes me to stumble, not because there’s a dead animal staring at me, but because of how gorgeous she is, set up on her little altar. That and the gut-punch of grief as I take in the shining coat of gray fur and that little angular face that I’d know anywhere.
Curio.
She was the closest thing I ever had to a pet, and yet, far from it. I still remember the first time she followed me through the trees, a sliver of silver in the dark as I took my nightly route to Hawthorne’s. It started out with random run-ins, but then I found her keeping me company more and more. Foraging alongside me some afternoons, walking silently beside me as I tried to keep my eyes on anything but the shifting shadows that lingered in the darkness. Curio’s company was a simple, yet undeniably authentic thing. I’d always had such a hard time making friends, but I enjoyed the peaceful, unassuming connection with animals. They offered truly unconditional love. Something I was desperate for.
