Page 30 of Beautiful Nightmare
Who am I kidding? It’s too fucking dangerous to be awake or even be in this house.
Inhaling deeply through my nose, my mind wanders to impossible possibilities, such as, could I escape? Surely he can’t see all or know all.
Already I know I’m dumb for such thoughts, but I continue to humor myself, rationalizing the irrational.
I’m not familiar with his abilities, his powers, and how he is able to grab ahold of me or the others so easily. How he can manipulate our minds to bend to his will. Agatha never allowed us to learn about any magic, just that it exists in our world and that ours was taken from us because we were bad, bad kids unworthy of such gifts.
If only I could find his blind spot.
Frustrated, I think back to our childhood.
The crisp air tickled my skin as I skipped down the cobblestone sidewalks as we explored the town with extreme limitations. Seeing the shops would help expose us to a life our dreams were made of, witches' brew, spell-casting books, and potions. I recall pressing my face against the pane of glass,envying the smiling children with their parents inside. And always thinking, that should have been me with my moms, but as those thoughts occurred, Agatha would pull on the collar of my shirt and remind us we were not the victims because we did this to ourselves. We weren’t allowed to argue with her; punishments would be implemented at home if we did. Therefore, I quickly learned to grin and bear it; that was the only technique to keep the peace.
Also, thinking back, Agatha never let me wear my dresses into town. I don’t know how I didn’t see it then. The manipulation, gaslighting, and suppression had already begun all those years ago, and I was completely fucking blind to it.
I justified it as stern, a strict hand, but it was anything but.
Annoyance festers within me as I shake my head against the pillow, staring at the stark wall.
I’ve been like this for hours, unmoving. And anytime my eyes attempt to drift closed, all I see is Beckham’s dead body in the garden. As the distinct image flashes before me, my body jolts and my eyes shoot open, only to cry some more.
The psychological torture of years past to now, is impacting me to a degree I have never felt before.Sending my mind and body into autopilot just to survive.
As my brain tingles, exhaustion strikes once more, and I allow it, tired of fighting. I hope it will take me away… far fucking away. Please, make this all end. I’ll sit through the memory dump and flooding images of my mate being taken from me if you just allow me to fall into an abyss once done.
Dazed, I continue staring at the bleak wall.
Could this be grief?
I recall being broken when my moms died, but to allow myself time to grieve them properly was never a gift I was given. And now, perhaps, I am grieving all three… or four if we include my childhood, all at once, now.
Then, in a state of unconscious behavior, I feel my heavy, lifeless body roll over. A sharp pain from my ribs begs for me to stop, but I don’t, as pain is nothing new to me. Perching myself on the edge of the bed, I take a deep breath in through my nose, waiting for my ribs to calm themselves before glancing over to the wall. And what I focus on is the single most important thing in this room, the fucking window.
It’s my only way to salvation.
Pushing myself up, I rise to steady feet, whichheavily move my body across the floor. A sliver of worry attempts to enter me as the loud thuds from the balls of my feet echo, but I push the worry away, deciding if he’s going to hear me, he will. There is nothing I can do to stop that now because regardless, I am getting to that window.
My arms wrap around my body as I walk, and I find myself favoring my right side. Feeling around, I try to gauge if my ribs are broken or simply bruised. It’s hard to tell, and pushing on them causes me to wince in pain.
The sun still hides behind the dark, swirling clouds. What I would do to just have a taste of sun before it all ended, but I have learned quickly at Agatha Manor that we never get what we want here.
Fingers rise from my torso and grip the wooden windowsill. Sliding it up, I realize it’s heavier than I recall, but through the tiniest of cracks, fresh air enters and hope is renewed. I get it up just enough to slide my fingers under to leverage it better. Pushing, the friction of the wood causes it to stick in some spots, making the opening uneven, but it’s fucking opening, and that’s what matters.
NO!
Prince’s voice surrounds me,and I freeze.
Please don’t come. Let me leave,I repeat to myself over and over, pleading for mercy. I am no longer above begging.
He doesn’t respond. Silence surrounds me, and I take the chance, continuing my efforts.
But those efforts are short-lived because in one rapid swoop, the window is thrust down swiftly on top of my fingers.
I burst out screaming, followed by a river of tears. The pain is throbbing, and it feels like with each second, they stay trapped. The temperature rises, and they burn red.
Again, my body goes into autopilot and pulls my trapped fingers out from under the thick wood and heavy glass window. The throbbing intensifies, but there is absolutely nothing I can do to alleviate the pain. I release another high-pitched scream; it nearly bursts my own eardrums, leaving them ringing once I am done.
My gaze then wanders to an all-familiar spot, my vanity, and more importantly, the mirror. Moving toward it, I have one goal in mind: it has to work. This is my Hail Mary, my last chance.