by E. K. Blair
“You’re a terrible liar, lassie,” she says as she takes my hand and leads me over to the dining room table and sits me down.
She rushes into the kitchen and quickly returns with the kettle as well as a cup and saucer. I watch as her frail hands pour the hot water and dunk in a tea bag before setting it down in front of me.
I don’t refute her accusation that I’m a liar. I’m too emotionally drained to play games, and then she remarks, “Your eyes look like they hurt.”
And they do.
I’ve cried more in these past few weeks than I have in my whole life. Pike taught me how to shut off my emotions, act like a machine so that no one could hurt me, and he taught me well. But the strength it takes to turn it all off is beyond what I feel I’m capable of at the moment.
My eyes are a constant shade of pink, and the salt from my tears has burned through the tender skin that surrounds them. Makeup only irritates it and stings, so I go easy with the powder in my feeble attempt to look as presentable as possible.
But I have to wonder why I’m even concerned about how I present myself. I’m thousands of miles away from America. I’m no longer pretending or fighting because I’ve already lost.
I don’t want to be Nina anymore. I don’t want the stupid life of Mrs. Vanderwal. It’s over. There’s nothing left of it because everyone is gone. Maybe, just maybe, I can stop fighting, stop the lies, stop fearing and hiding. For the first time since I was eight years old and left to decay in Posen, maybe now I can finally breathe. I just wish I knew how. It’s been almost twenty-one years of suffocating, and when I look over at Isla and see the years marked in the wrinkles of her face, I give her a little more truth.
“I went to the home he used to own.”
She reaches across the table and places her hand on my arm. “You said you lost him. What happened? Did he leave you?”
“Yes,” I choke out, trying to hold back my tears. “He died.”
“Bless you, dear. I’m so sorry.”
Swallowing hard, we both sit for a while before she breaks the silence and tells me, “I lost my husband eight years ago. Nothing can compare to the pain of losing the man you give your spirit to. When you put everything you have—everything you are—into the one who promises to take care of you, you become transparent and utterly vulnerable to that person. And when he’s taken away, so are you, and yet here you remain, left to continue living your life as if you have something to live for.”
“Then why go on living?”
“Well,” she starts, looking over to the fireplace mantel where a menagerie of picture frames line the wooden structure. “For me it was for my family. My children. It took a while, but eventually I found the strength to pull myself together and live for them.”
I scan the array of family portraits and candid snapshots, and when I turn back to Isla, she smiles, asking, “Do you have children?”
Her question hits me hard. I’m not sure how to answer because it wasn’t that long ago that I did have a child. A baby. A tiny baby growing in my womb, and now that womb is empty. So, I keep my answer simple, “I don’t have any family. It’s only me.”
“Your parents?”
Shaking my head, I repeat, “Just me.”
Instead of telling me how sorry she is about this fact, she does her best to encourage. “You’re so young. You have time in this life. For me, I was an old woman when my husband passed on, but you . . . you have youth on your side. You live for that. You’re beautiful; you’ll fall in love again, and you have time to create your own family.”
“I don’t think I’m strong enough to fall in love again.” I’m also unworthy and undeserving of love after everything I’ve done.
“Maybe not now. It takes time for wounds to heal, but there will come a time when you’ll be strong enough.”
I’m smart enough to know that not all wounds heal, but I nod and give a weak smile before standing up. “I should get out of these wet clothes,” I say and excuse myself from the room.
After a hot shower, I tend to the cuts on my hands and then wonder why I even bothered to do so as I pick up a bottle of sleeping pills from my toiletry bag. The pills lightly pad against each other as I roll the bottle in my hand. I keep wishing for some sort of relief, some comfort, but it’s been here the whole time. Right here in this bottle.
What’s the point of life when life has nothing but vile hate for you?
My body is numb, a casket of waste. I feel nothing in this moment as I consider my escape. I don’t want this life anymore. I never wanted it.
I’m outside of my body, standing next to a pathetic woman whose bones now protrude through colorless skin because she refuses to take care of herself. I look at her, slowly deteriorating. She stops rolling the bottle of pills in her hand and stares into the translucent orange before popping the lid off.
“Do it,” I encourage. “Put yourself out of your misery.”
I know she hears me as she moves gracefully, pouring the pills in her hand and then lifts her head, staring across the room at nothing in particular.
“Just do it, Elizabeth. Everything you want is waiting for you. They’re all waiting for you.”
And then she does it; holding her hand to her mouth, she dumps the pills in and takes a long drink of water from the glass on the bedside table. I walk over to her when she lies back on the bed and run my fingers through her hair, soothing her the way a parent would a child. I meet her craving for tender affection. She looks peaceful in the stillness of the room, breathing in a soft, rhythmic pattern. I notice tears puddling in her blue eyes, but she doesn’t cry, and I know she’s ready.
“I just can’t do it anymore,” she whispers to herself and then closes her eyes as she lets go of the fight.
Sometimes, for some people, the fairytale only exists in death.
WHEN I OPENED my eyes and found myself in the same room I fell asleep in, I had to laugh at how pathetic I was. I couldn’t even kill myself; instead I just gave myself one hell of a nap. And there I was, greeted by another day after a lousy botched suicide attempt.
Everything inside of me was paralyzed, yet my body still moved.
Did you know it was possible to have feelings with no emotions?
You can, and I’m proof of it.
I performed the same actions of the previous day with detachment, and it wasn’t long until I found myself back at Brunswickhill. I spent hours there, sitting outside of the gates and crying for my lost love.
And the next day, I returned.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
And even the day after that.
It’s a pathetic routine I refuse to break, because for some reason, as upsetting as it is to be at the estate, it allows me to feel connected to Declan. And I need that connection because I don’t have anything else to hold on to. So I cling to the forlorn fairytale that never will be.
It’s a little over a week that I’ve been coming here, spending my days crying, pleading, bargaining with a God I don’t even believe in to bring him back. Isla now looks at me with pity every evening when I return to shower and sleep. We don’t speak much, but it’s mostly on my part. I’ve allowed the wall I spent my whole life building around my heart to crumble to dust, and I’ve never felt weaker than I do now. Not even when I was being molested by my brother when I was just a child. Or when I was bound up in the closet and locked away for days on end.
No.
This is much worse.
I drive in silence over to Abbotsford Road, and when I round the bend, I slow the car down as I see the new owners pulling up to the gate. They haven’t been around since I’ve been coming here. Chills run through me as I drive past the gate and follow the winding road until my car is out of their sight. I’m hardly thinking as I follow my body’s movements, quickly parking the car and hopping out. Walking back to the gate, I catch the taillights of the SUV as it enters the private drive and I rush to the gates to slip through befo
re they close completely.
Curiosity gets to me, but it’s more than that. It’s a feeling of ownership, as if this place is mine, because once upon a time ago, it was going to be mine, but time wasn’t on my side back then. It still isn’t.
I step off the drive and into the snow that covers the ground beneath. I duck behind the trees to remain unseen and start exploring the grounds. Steep hills are covered in bushes and trees that the cold weather has consumed to a barren state. If I close my eyes, I can picture the lush greens and colorful flowers that would come to life under the warm sun. The beauty is still visible though. Everything looks pure and virgin, coated in the fluffy, white powder.
Looking up, I can see the house perched at the top of the hill. My heart grows heavy, sinking down into my gut as I peer up through the trees to see the stonework of what was supposed to be my palace. I continue to weave deeper into the trees, wandering about when I come across a small, manmade, pebbled creek that winds down one of the small hills. It’s covered in frozen water and there’s a small wooden bench at the bottom where it rounds out into a tiny pond.
And now it hits me . . .
Taking a slow spin to take in my surroundings, nestled within this beautiful place, I realize this resembles what I’ve spent my life dreaming about. A small forest. Carnegie’s magical forest. The thought brings me a warmth of comfort along with a cleaver to my chest because now I feel I’ve lost even more.
Time passes as I explore, getting lost in my head with fantasies of what could have been and memories of what was. When I get closer to the top of the hill, I can see the front of the house between the branches. It doesn’t look like any home I’ve seen. It’s grand and dignified, adorned in large pieces of stone that embody this three-story structure. A massive, tiered fountain stands proud at the center of the circle drive. It’s covered in snow, but it doesn’t take away from the beauty.
Shrubs line the perimeter of the house, but there are several gaping holes in the hedge, missing bushes that have probably died in the frost and been removed. Everything is so pristine except for the mess of randomly missing shrubs. I take a few steps to try and get a closer look at a small building sitting off to the side of the house when I hear a door close, startling me. Quickly turning, I stagger on my feet, moving deeper into the trees to hide.
A car starts.
“Shit,” I murmur under my breath, and I know I have to quickly get back down to the base of the property without being seen.
I see the black SUV making its way down the drive, and I rush towards the gate, trying to keep my balance. There’s no way I’ll be able to scale the wall to get out if that gate closes, but there are hidden patches of ice I’m trying to watch out for, slowing me down.
Grabbing on to tree trunks for balance as I make my way down, I notice the SUV stop from the corner of my eye, and in a panic to get to my car, I make a run for it. I’m close to the gate, and I take a look behind me to see the SUV moving again. When I turn my head back around, I stumble, crouching over to duck under a massive branch hanging too low. My shoe catches on a patch of ice, knocking me off balance. Taking a huge step to get my slipping feet back under me, I plow down several feet, falling hard onto my stomach on the drive. My palms sting as I try to catch my fall on the icy gravel.
Not wanting to get caught trespassing on private property, I do my best to hop up to my feet.
“Hey!” a man shouts at me, but my pounding heart that beats in my ears muffles him.
I slow my step and stop, cursing myself for being so foolish. Turning around, the man’s car door is open, and when he steps out, my lungs fill to the brink of their elasticity. Everything that’s been working so hard at keeping me alive soothes, and my hands fly to cover my mouth in utter shock and elation.
Oh my God.
Confusion and fear and anxiety swarm through my veins.
Everything stops.
Time stands still.
I can’t move, can’t blink, can’t breathe.
My eyes scan his figure as the seconds falter between us.
This isn’t real. You’ve been out in the cold for too long. You’re upset and hallucinating, Elizabeth. It isn’t real.
But he moves.
He’s alive! Oh, thank God, he’s alive, but how?
Something between a gasp and a cry rips out of me. I can’t help the thankful smile that grows on my lips that are hidden behind my hands, and I prepare to run to him. He’s alive and on solid ground, not buried in the dirt of the earth like I’ve believed this entire time. He’s whole and beautiful, and I need to cover him in my warmth just as much as I need him to cover me. To heal this suffering that’s been gnawing through my flesh and bone, straight into the fibers of my cells.
I breathe in holy relief as he steps away from the SUV.
“What the fuck are you doing here?!”
I drop my hands, stunned beyond what I can comprehend as his harsh tone slays every piece of hope my foolish heart just resurrected.
“You’re real?” I question, but my words are barely audible under my panted breath. My pulse is turbulent, and I’m not sure if what I’m seeing really exists.
“You left me to die, you manipulative bitch!”
“No!”
No!!
My brain races to defend, to take away the hate that is utterly obvious in his eyes. His words are suffused in it, leaving them to poison me. A menace to once was.
“You lied.” His words come quick as rage boils behind his glare.
“No!” I grapple with words that I can’t seem to find in my state of shock. I want to ask him if he’s real again, but the venom on his tongue scares me into justifying my actions.
“You cunt!”
“Please, no! It wasn’t like tha—”
“What was it like then? Huh? Tell me what is was, Nina?” A knowing grin creeps upon his lips—evil—as he takes a step closer, but still much too far for me to touch. “Or is it Elizabeth? Who the hell are you?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur shamefully and then continue, “I don’t know who I am. I haven’t been me in a very long time.” My words are like knives carving pieces out of me. They hurt when I confess, “The only thing I know I am is yours.”
“Tell me I wasn’t your goddamn pawn!”
“This was never supposed to happen, Declan. Please—”
“What? You turning me into a murderer? That wasn’t your plan all along?”
“I love you. Please. You have to understand,” I plead against his wrath.
In three quick steps, his hands are on me, gripping my shoulders, swinging me around as if I weigh nothing, slamming me violently against the side of his car.
I can smell him, and suddenly, there’s no more pain. His fingers pierce into my flesh, bruising me instantly, and it feels like kisses on my skin. He yanks me closer towards him before smashing me back against the car again, seething through clenched teeth, “You’re a sick fuck. Nothing but street trash.” He takes in a deep breath, and then adds, “That’s right. I know all about you and that punk kid you ran around with.”
“It wasn’t supposed to end like that,” I try convincing. “I fell in love with you.”
“End like what? Huh?”
“The way it did.”
His hands drop from my shoulders, and before I know it, he’s got his hand wrapped around my neck, choking, pinning me against the SUV, and I savor the heat of him against me.
“I killed your husband,” he snarls, beautiful breath bathing my face.
“I didn’t want that,” I gasp on strangled breath.
“What did you want?”
Looking up into his eyes, they’re blurred behind my welled tears when I tell him, “You.”
“I should kill you.”
My hands cling to his wrist, urging him to tighten his grip around my throat.
“Do it.” My words, an offering of atonement. “I’ve lost everything, and out of all that, you’re the only one I would have given
up everything for just to have one last touch.” His grip weakens but his hand remains firmly in place, and when I watch our breaths unite in small clouds of vapor between our lips, realization crystallizes.
My God, he’s alive.
Letting go of his wrist, I reach up and run my hand along his stubbled jaw, and the comfort in the touch flays me entirely. A disgustingly raw sob erupts from my bleeding heart. I want to crawl inside of his skin and drown myself in his blood. I want to swim in his marrow.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he barks, wrenching my hand off of him.
I’m a mess though, unable to contain my emotions as they pour out of me. “I thought you were dead. For weeks I’ve been mourning you—”
“Get the fuck off my property, bitch.”
His words cut me off. I shouldn’t be stunned at them, but the snarl in his tone is startling, and I quickly shut my mouth. He then grabs ahold of my jaw, forcing my chin up as he looks down on me, and I don’t recognize the devilry in his eyes. He pisses his words, “You’re nothing more than a shit-stain, so fuck off. I’m done with you, understand?”
“Please . . . don’t.”
“Nod your little head and tell me you understand.”
The urgency to explain everything to him is powerful, but I know he’d never hear my words with the hatred in him right now, so I obey with a nod. “I understand.”
He lets go, not giving me a second look as he turns away and gets back into the SUV. I look at his beautiful face through the windshield. I never want to take my eyes off him, and it kills to know that I have to. He glares at me with daggers as I feel tears running down my cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” I say even though I know he can’t hear me and then turn my back on my prince that I so selfishly molded into this monster.
Walking away, I’m confused. There are a million feelings and reactions, and I have no clue which one to grab on to. I don’t know how to begin to process the fact that I just saw my angel of death in the flesh. I felt his heat, smelled him, heard him.