Sinking into my mess of blankets, I let out the loudest sound I’ve allowed myself in private, in years. Something between a groan and a laugh cracked in half. Today alone has been more exhausting than a lifetime in this house. Every muscle protested, especially my back. I could still feel the weave of that damned rug pressed into my palms. The smell clung, faint and metallic. My body had protested every movement I had made after I woke up from the ritual, especially carrying that damn rug around. Godsdamn my impulse-driven stupidity, doing the whole thing on his fucking rug. It all went… as well as it could have. By chance, I tell myself. A sequence of minor accidents cooperating for once. Meeting him in the garden, that ridiculous bonfire. The right moment opened itself, and I walked through it. That’s all. Nothing clever. Nothing planned. Now he at least knows what he needs to for the Krovposvet to run smoothly. He looked unconvinced. Not his fault. Anyone would. The mind does strange things when it’s tired, and he has been tired since childhood. I couldn’t blame him for forgetting. I couldn’t blame him for remembering differently. All I needed was for him to understand the shape of it. The outline is enough. As long as he can manage that, everything will be fine. Just fine. It’s not like I have anyone who will miss me anyhow. Unlike Yann?k, I’ve never been one to make many friends. As tragic as my lonely life has been, I suppose it comes in handy today. I could keep lying and tell myself it was a conscious choice in preparation for the day I die.
What’s a few more lies to make myself feel better?
With how I’m acting, I might not be as detached from my family’s deluded behaviour as I like to think I am. I’ve done exactly what they did, I’ve lied and kept secrets, spilled my blood for my own benefit; sold my soul. My parents would be proud. Ironic, the first time I do something they would legitimately be proud of me for, is right before I die. Better late than never.
A cynical smile spread over my face before I could help myself. I hated how good it felt to know that I had finally done something that would make my parents proud. Even if they’ll never know what I’ve done. The ceiling above me swims a little. I should sleep. My body won’t agree. If I just keep breathing, nothing else has to happen yet. The room keeps doing that sinking thing rooms do at night, when the weight of the house moves from the floors into your bones. It’s a mean house. It listens. It waits. I close my eyes and hear the quiet again: the muffled laughter from the garden when the fire first took; the snap of old wood; the hiss when I threw on another branch; his voice asking questions he didn’t know how to ask. The words came easier than I expected. Too easy. I must have rehearsed them without noticing. I told him everything he needed to hear. If he had looked just a little longer at my face, he might have seen how tired I was, how harmless a person becomes when all they want is rest. People forgive tired girls. They think fatigue proves innocence because guilt is supposed to be bright-eyed. I am very, very tired.
If I keep my thoughts small, the cold won’t reach my hands. I pull the blanket tighter. Breathing becomes the work of a furnace with poor ventilation: hot between the ribs, then light-headed, like drowning while sitting upright. The numbness creeps in from the edges, the way the sea creeps up the stairs under the house when the tide is in. I used to like that sound. It meant the world still wanted us. Tonight, it sounds like counting. There’s movement in the corridor, the house shifting. Every time it passes my door, something inside my throat knots. It loosens when I force a swallow. It doesn’t leave.
I felt empty, like there was nothing left of me already, even though I am very much still alive. The only thing that dared to show its face was the inescapable dread that settled uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. I was used to this kind of feeling, the icing fear that haunted me whenever I heard footsteps pass outside my door. That irrational realization that I was in danger, that I needed to run. Fight or flight in the blink of an eye. My body tensed, screaming with pain as my muscles strained. My body twitches as if to rise and run. Little Leonora, still in there somewhere, wants to ruin everything by surviving it. She taps on the inside of my ribs and whispers that accidents can be undone if you catch them early enough. I’m too tired to let her out. Besides, not everything tonight was an accident. That’s the part that makes the air thin.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
I shut her out. It’s too late now. There is nothing I can do anymore. I’ve made my bed, and now I lie in it, cold, numb, and terrified.
The thought of death had never scared me before. All those rituals down in the caverns beneath the house had gotten me used to the sights and smells. Death was objective, inescapable. The realization that it was coming for me too, so soon, was something completely different. Suddenly, I was aware of how all those sacrifices must have felt when we tied them down on that altar and cut their bodies to ribbons. I could hear the emotion in their screams as they played back in my head. There was so much more than just pain. I could hear the fear, the sadness, reverberating through my head. Just like it had done back in the cave. If I had done something sooner. If I had been braver then.
If if if.
My body fills until there’s hardly room for breath. Panic wears the same shoes as regret when the hallway is dark. I let those people die just so I wouldn’t face another night starving in the dungeons. “You deserve to die.”
The thought arrives uninvited: this might be my last night. Not in a tragic way, no weeping, no melodrama. Just arithmetic. I have arranged my numbers; they add up. I roll onto my side, and the mattress sighs. A memory tries the door, and I slide the bolt. There is nothing more to do. I told him what mattered. I kept the parts that would only confuse him out of sight. I wonder if he’ll sleep. He used to fall asleep in the strangest places: sitting up on the landing, cheek smudged against the banister; on the roof once, after sneaking out to watch a meteor shower that never arrived. I hope he dreams of something large and harmless. Fields. Boats. Anything but hallways. This house has a way of translating everything into ritual: walking, eating, speaking. Even resting has steps. Inhale, exhale, remind yourself of the sequence; exhale again. If I keep the pattern, the fear folds itself smaller, like cloth. There’s a mercy to the way the house is quiet now. Earlier, it was all attention. Footsteps, doors, somebody laughing too brightly in a room I couldn’t see. Now it listens, but from a distance. I can pretend I am alone. I’m supposed to think of something profound in moments like these. A vow. A prayer. I have neither. I have a list: check the candles, check the matches, don’t forget the cloth, remember how quickly smoke stains the ceilings. Practicalities keep a person from floating off. I close my eyes, and the bonfire wakes behind them. Sparks fly upward into a black sky that looks close enough to touch. His face turns in that red light; uncertain, then certain enough, and for a second, I am so proud of him I could break. He took the weight I gave him. It fits his hands. That’s something like grace.
Outside my door, the corridor breathes. The stone keeps cool. The sea under the floor counts its own heartbeats. I am so tired. There isn’t anything left, and I should rest. If a thought tries to force its way back in, if it knocks, if it insists on saying the wrong name for what happened. I will ignore it. I have earned a peaceful few hours. I have earned the quiet story I told. The day can come. If it must. For now, I let the house go on without me. The sea below ebbs and flows. My hands find each other and stay still. I listen until the listening stops being work. It’s good, I think, to know that even if no one ever understands exactly what I did, someone will be safe because of it. That’s enough.
I breathe in.
I breathe out.
I rest.
