Page 26 of Hearts Etched in Glass (The Afton Adders #2)

Liar, Jelly Roll

The telephone rings within my flat, giving me pause, for it is early in the morning before my shift.

Rushing over to the phone, I pick up the cold receiver and hold it against my ear.

“Hello?” I ask.

In response I’m surprised to hear my mother’s voice.

“Tilly? Oh God, Tilly!” Her voice is cracking.

“What’s wrong, mother?” I briskly respond.

She gives an exasperated exhale, then inhales, trying to steady her breathing and compose herself. “ It’s your father. He is sick. Can you come home?” Then her voice breaks off and she begins softly sobbing over the phone.

“Of course.” Then I hang up the receiver and quickly call the hospital to notify them I won’t be in for a shift, because of an ill parent, hopefully it isn’t worse.

My mother and father always feign their ill health and stress though I never believed anything would come about it because they’ve always threatened to carry a short life.

After hearing it time and time again, you become numb to the statement.

Guilt settles in my chest at the thought something horrible has happened to father.

I call Bobby’s residence and it continuously rings. Same with Marcus’s.

So, I call their office and leave a note with the receptionist, asking her to notify them of my ill father. She agrees, but I don’t trust she will follow through for the woman is dense.

Sweet, but dense.

Flying down the countryside, the manor comes into view.

It’s two stories but stands at three to four stories because of the pretentious windows and vaulted ceilings, with approximately ten bedrooms. The gray, marble stone pillars shine in the sunlight.

As I pull up to the house I am greeted by my mother and her assistant Meryll, dressed in her navy blouse and skirt, with the same white apron.

Mother opens her arms wide and embraces me with a hug.

“What’s wrong with Father?” I ask as I take a step back, causing the hug to be short lived, she frowns at me. Her golden hair is tucked back into a tight bun. Her pink is dress brighter than the sun.

“Dear, what are you wearing?” is her response, not answering my question, so I begin marching inside the house towards their wing.

“I’m in my hospital attire, mother; I was supposed to go to my job but instead came here since you alerted me to Father’s ill health. Now, what’s wrong with him? Maybe I can assist since I’m a nurse.” I turn towards her with my arms out in question.

She takes a handkerchief to her eyes and tears begin to threaten her eyes .

“He was already seen by a doctor and your brother has assessed him as well. They were out hunting, and your father’s heart has been poorly ever since our conflict. He is resting at the moment, you can see him later when he awakes,” she retorts, then gives a small sniffle.

Meryll steps forward, her bony, elderly hand gently takes my forearm, “It’s good to see you, deary.

Everyone is so stressed lately, why don’t you go lay down in your old room.

Maybe after everyone has calmed, we can have some tea?

Yeah?” Then she proceeds to lead me down the hallway towards my childhood room.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

The hallway aligned with old, painted family portraits. The same pristine rugs lay upon the floor. Nothing touched within the wing where my room resides.

“It is strange to see all you children grown. You’ve turned into such a lovely young lady.

So intelligent, so driven, yet still stubborn.

” She pats my forearm with her other hand as we turn into my childhood room.

I breathe it in. It still smells the same, and not in a comforting way as most would assume.

The small girl inside me tosses and turns, feeling uneasy. My stomach writhes .

Meryll lets go of my forearm and walks to the window, pointing down towards the gardens.

“You know we planted new items and changed the pattern, bringing in more colors than crimson and pink! Come take a look, your room has the best vantage point.” She taps on the glass and then moves toward my bed to fluff the ivory, satin pillowcase.

I walk towards the window, the floor eerily creaking underneath my feet.

My breathing picks up as small memories of my childhood flood my mind.

My younger self sitting near that window crying over the mistreatment by my parents.

The echoes of my mother telling me I wouldn’t amount to anything if I chose the path of a nurse instead of a physician.

The silent screaming into my pillow to try and release the anger and hate.

The thought of how I would cut into my skin to bleed the frustration out, in order to find some sort of release.

Peering through the window, I find the same flower pattern that had been there since my childhood. Furrowing my brow, I look back at Meryll, who has left my room and shut the door. I rush over to the door, my heart pounding within my chest .

As I reach for the door handle, I am met with resistance.

She’s fucking locked me in.

This has to be a mistake.

I pull on the handle, but I feel something barring the other side.

Panic swells inside my soul.

No. No, no, no !

Meryll’s voice creeps through the door. “It’s for your own good miss.” Then I hear the click of her heels recede down the hallway, as I’m locked within the prison of my childhood room.

My eyes go wide as I clutch my arms across my chest, letting out a scream.

The defiance I had begun to nurture and grow throughout the years of leaving this establishment crumbles, as I am turned back into the pathetic child I had been.

Locked in her room.

Locked in her thoughts.

A glass cage.

I fall to the ground and dig my nails into my face.

Letting out the wail of a banshee .

I hope my mother can hear me.

Though I know she will feel no remorse.

I hope my scream will wake the fucking dead.

I’ve wrecked my childhood room without a care in the world.

Curtains ripped from their posts.

The canopy bed ripped to shreds.

I find she has stockpiled my dresser drawers with pink clothing, all a size smaller than what I currently am.

They’ve removed any and all items that I could utilize to harm myself or another.

No scissors, no make-up brushes.

Nothing to write with.

I’ve even tried dismantling the bed posts, but they must have a large iron rod on the inside for nothing I do loosens the damn thing.

I thought of taking it off and throwing it through the window so I could just jump to my death, for even if I break the window there is nothing long enough to safely get me to the ground level since this fucking room is nearly three stories high.

Though it is only a two-story house these damned high ceilings create an obstacle I cannot defeat.

My stomach begins to grumble under my abdomen.

I stand from the floor, glancing around at the mess I’ve created.

Marcus and Bobby would be proud.

Then my heart pangs.

How will they know where I am?

Did the receptionist give them my message?

Tears well within my eyes as a couple escape and run down my cheeks.

“Would you stop your whinging?” A voice comes from the door. A tiny slot opens and Meryll’s eyes peer through.

I run to the door and begin banging on it. “Get me the fuck out of here Meryll, this is illegal!”

“If you continue speaking to me like this miss, then I will leave until you can compose yourself like the lady you are. No wonder your mother is so distraught, those heathens have turned you into a classless creature.” She narrows her eyes at me and I try my best to swiftly stick my hand through the small opening and poke her fucking eyes out.

She snaps the small wooden door shut, slamming my fingers in the process.

I let out a painful scream as I clutch my hand to my chest.

“Well, I wouldn’t have had to do that if you would behave,” she retorts as I feel my face reddening and the frustration bubbling under my skin. I didn’t think I could be filled with much more hatred, but there was a higher capacity that could be reached within my goddamned soul.

“You best listen or this will be harder. You need to be the good girl you used to be Tilly,” she says in that singsong, condescending voice.

I let my rage pour as I begin punching the fucking door, then wonder if I can fuel my energy to kick the door down.

I try this for nearly ten, maybe even twenty minutes. I don’t know for they removed the clocks from my room.

The heels on my feet ache. My knees feel swollen from the impact .

My knuckles are bloodied.

I didn’t realize I lost a fingernail from the small opening Meryll had closed on my hand, causing it to tear off.

My body slinks to the floor as exhaustion and defeat settle into my bones.

The frantic confines of my rib cage rise and fall with the pattern of my beating heart.

I can feel the blood pulsing in my jugular, as I stare at the ceiling and say a small prayer that Bobby and Marcus are somehow on their way.

Recollecting my apartment, I try to retrace if I have any items or hints, old pictures that would possibly show them where the hell I am.

But I can’t think of any.

I didn’t want any pictures of my past.

I didn’t want any reminders of my harrowing, cold childhood.

Raising my head, I feel the sweat clinging to my forehead, causing my hair to clump together. I jump slightly as a pair of eyes are staring back at me.

My own.

From the bathroom mirror.

The tension begins to build within my soul .

Though I don’t see the adult me.

I see the child.

The young lady from ages ago.

She would sit in front of the mirror and question everything.

Question why I wasn’t good enough.

Why I had to earn love.

Wishing I could be perfect like my brothers.

Then maybe. Maybe my parents would love me.

See me.

The anger resurfaces as I ignore my protesting legs and sprint towards the bathroom, slamming my fist into the mirror, causing it to shatter.

Shards of glass surround me, as I feel the pressure building. The encased emotion boiling over from the kettle being burned.

The tension unbearable within my body, my soul screaming to release the pressure from within.

The wound reopened within my knuckles and blood is trickling from my fingertips and onto the bathroom countertop.

Taking a three-inch shard, I study the sides to make sure it would be a good fit to give a clean cut.

I choose my device and then prepare a washcloth, ridding myself of my hospital attire. Then scrub my thigh of choice with soap and water, remembering how the ease of water helps aid the blade cut smoothly across the skin.

Sitting back down on the floor beside my bed, I take in one long, deep inhale, feeling my chest expand to capacity.

I grasp the shard in between my fingers and cut three straight lines across my right thigh.

It isn’t deep enough to cause substantial harm, but just enough to alleviate the pressure inside.

I feel the pain slowly and only subtly leave with the slow rolling blood that tracks across the inner portion of my thigh.

I give myself a small chuckle, realizing the irony.

Bobby would be so disappointed I broke our promise.