I haven’t seen Vincent since yesterday.
I don’t even know if he came back because I was up until quite late and never heard him come in.
I fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, so he could have come back home then.
This is a nightmare. All of it. As is he.
Yesterday, I was so upset I stayed in my room all day and barely ate anything. Again. I can count the things I’ve eaten this week on one hand. The week hasn’t ended yet, and I’m already a mess. A mess in my mind and body.
It’s one thing to agree to this shit charade, but not knowing how long I have to do this for is killing me. It’s eating away at my insides and making me crazy at the same time. Even convicts know when they can leave prison.
Even when they get the life sentence, they know the only way out is death.
Will it be the same for me?
Am I to stay with this man for life for the two million? Is that what he intends?
It’s that worry that played in my mind over and over again all through yesterday and then today.
I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. I don’t know if Dad is okay, and I have to be real—I probably lost my job.
I wanted that chance to do the interview on Coral Winters for more reasons than the prestige it would carry. She’s famous for her notable charity work across the world. She’s one of those strong women who help people.
Doing an article on someone like that would be amazing. For me, it’s a little more personal than that. She wrote a few books of inspiration to heal the soul.
Her words helped heal me.
Simple words that spoke to me.
Remember who you are and never give anyone permission to treat you less than that.
It was those words that snapped me out of my funk. A slump I’d been in for years, something I never thought I would break free from. With my mind damaged and my heart in pieces from all the things I saw and all that I lost and was done to me, I don’t know how I made it back.
This whole thing… being here with Vincent feels like I let myself down.
Today, I could only calm my troubled mind by going to the library. The goal was to read to escape the shit my hard-fought-for life has turned into.
Everything is shit, and I’m so worried I think that by itself will kill me. That along with its friend—helplessness.
I stayed in here the whole day reading Shakespeare. I’m shocked Vincent has such books, but he does.
The library is quite big for a house, and I wonder if the woman who lived here before created it. I look around the rows of shelves and see good books, old books. All the classics and more.
Today, I read Julius Caesar and King Lear. They’re my favorites. I’ve read every single play and sonnet written by Shakespeare because in my household it was a must. My parents wanted me to read the greats and be strong minded.
I moved on to Macbeth an hour ago, but now I am really tired. It’s super late.
At eight, Marguerite came in to ask me if I wanted dinner, the same as she did a few times today to ask me if I wanted something to eat. Each time, I told her no.
That last time she was prepped for the answer and came with those cookies I liked when we first met.
I ate those, but since my appetite is screwed, I couldn’t taste the flavors.
It must be after midnight now.
I close the book, get up, and place it back on the shelf. I’ll just go to bed and hope that tomorrow will be different. Just like last night.
I’m about to leave when my gaze lands on the other door across the room. It’s between the shelves with the encyclopedias.
Curiosity takes me over to it.
I try the handle assuming it will be locked if I’m not to venture and go snooping around the house. It’s not locked though. The handle turns, and the door opens.
I’m staring at a winding set of stairs that goes up. That’s all it is. The library is on the ground floor, and the stairs must just go up to the floors above.
Snooping around enters my mind as I go through the door. If the door was unlocked, then this must be somewhere I’m allowed.
Shit…. Allowed. Like a child or a pet, and my master has forbidden me to do certain things. I shake my head at myself and walk up the steps. They’re wooden, unlike the other stairs in the house that are made of stone and marble. I haven’t actually been outside to look around properly, but I get the feeling that the place is quite old. This part feels old, like it was part of the earlier features and the rest was just a refurbish.
I continue up until I see to my actual horror that I’m on the floor I was on the other night.
Across from me is the staircase I came up. The room I saw Vincent in is closer, and there’s another room next to it with a smaller door.
God… this is the part where I should turn and walk back the way I came, or go down the other stairs that will lead me back to my room.
I don’t know if he’s home. Apart from that night when I saw him in here, last night has been the only night he’s ignored me.
The warning of our altercation yesterday morning is screaming at me to leave.
Why put my fate to the test and make things worse for myself?
Why piss off the man who’s keeping me captive here any more than I already have? A captive is what I am, and those who can’t do any better should preserve what they have control over.
In other words, stay the fuck away.
Except… curiosity whispers to me. Maybe it did at the door in the library, enticing me to go through it. Now I’m here, and the whispers have a hold on me.
There’s an answer inside that room, but why do I care? Do I care to find out what the answer is?
And what’s the question? What’s the question I want an answer to? There’s nothing for me here but misery and distress. I already know the reasons for it. It’s Dad.
Looking at the room, though, I remember how Vincent had seemed from the glimpse I saw of him and what he’d said.
Maybe there’s a part of me that wants to know him that way. Know what he’s like that way. Just a man who looked up at the painting of the woman who he seemed to love.
Maybe I want to see that softer side to him… the passionate side, because I felt it every time we had sex. Every time, it grew stronger and stronger.
Maybe I want to feel like more than just his whore, and I’m looking for something to hold on to, to make myself feel better.
The thought moves me.
I look around and see the passage is clear. There’s no one up here but me. From what I noticed so far, the guards don't tend to come upstairs. Not to the private quarters.
There are enough guards around though. Enough to make sure I don’t entertain any bright ideas of escaping. As if I would.
I almost laugh at myself. No one in my position would think of escaping, certainly not when I don’t know where Dad is.
The guards are always downstairs guarding the entrances to the house inside and out.
I see them when I go down the stairs and when I’ve gone to the kitchen. There’s a door in the kitchen leading to the garden.
It would be one of them who would walk me like the dog I’ve become.
I pad across to the room. Again, I assume the door would be locked, but I see it’s not. Opening it confirms it’s not a door with a lock on it.
I close it, and fear fills me just for being here. I look at the painting of the woman, and I don’t know why, but I feel at ease for the subtle warmth that emanates from it.
It’s her eyes. I get closer and notice the way the artist did a great job of drawing the focus to them. It captures the emotion of contentment. That’s how she looks. Content and happy.
I stare at her for a few moments, my mind racing with questions. Who was she? What was she to Vincent? Was she really his wife?
The dress she’s wearing is a wedding dress. I’m sure of it.
I try to imagine him asking her to marry him. She seems so angelic and perfect. Gentle.
I look away and turn my attention to the rest of the room. It’s quite large. In the center is a black leather padded sofa. Over by the wall is a wide flat screen TV that takes up most of the wall. Then, next to the TV, there’s a row of shelves, glass cases, and cabinets. The glass cases have a museum feel to it. Like they're preserving the contents inside. Or… memories.
When I walk over to the closest one, I see pictures in elegant silver frames sitting on the rows of glass shelves.
They’re all pictures of her.
What happened to her?
They’re all her at various stages of her life leading up to one last one that looks like her in the portrait. She's wearing a wedding ring in that last picture and is smiling wide.
The next two cases have some collectable ornaments made of porcelain. They’re little jewelry boxes and trinkets. The next has figurines made of glass. It’s the last case that captures my attention completely, however.
The whole unit holds a display of ballerinas. Beautifully crafted porcelain ballerinas. Looking at them takes me to a time of happiness when I used to dance.
I was the dancer before I became the writer. Long before. Sometimes I wonder if it was real. I tend not to think back to my life before I was sixteen. That was when everything changed and I seemed to slip into some nightmare world where nothing quite seemed to fit, or feel real.
I was a dancer. Or at least that’s what I was going to be. Then the dream was stolen away from me along with everything else. I dare not think of dancing again. It reminds me too much of the past and my parents.
Looking at the display of ballerinas, though, is nice. The nostalgia takes me back, and I can’t resist opening the door to the case and picking up one with a little pink dress.
It reminds me of the dress I wore at my last performance. I’d just turned sixteen the day before. I didn’t know that everything I knew was about to change. I never knew that was the last time I’d experience true happiness.
Dancing in front of my parents at the Royal Opera House was possibly the best thing I’ve ever done in my life.
I’m so lost in the memory that I don’t hear the click of the door behind me. It’s already too late when heavy footsteps echo against the floorboards. In that moment, I know I’ve truly fucked up. Again.
I turn to face Vincent…
His eyes blaze and nostrils flare. He looks like he could breathe fire and incinerate me right here.
What do I do? What can I say?
I know I’m not supposed to be in here, and I directly disobeyed.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” he roars as he marches over to me. My soul shivers.
“I…” I try to rasp out a breath and some words, but I don’t know what to say, and I definitely don’t know what to say when he looks at the little ballerina in my hands.
He swipes it out of my hand, and I actually believe he’s going to hit me next, so I back away from him, bumping into the table. Something falls to the ground. It’s the TV remote.
I bend down to pick it up but freeze as the TV comes on, and so does she. The woman in the painting and the pictures.
She’s on the screen.
“Vinny, this is ridiculous,” she says with a hearty laugh, and we both fixate on the screen.
She’s walking up the path and carrying a baby.
“Sorcha, this will be one of those funny videos we show him when he’s older,” a male voice replies.
I recognize it. It’s his.
Vinny… that’s what she called him, like Marguerite does even though she tries to keep up the façade that she always calls him sir, or boss.
Sorcha… that’s the woman’s name.
“Couldn’t we do this on a different day when I look better? Vinny, I just gave birth. I look terrible.” She shakes her head and holds the baby to her chest. That’s Vincent’s son.
She’s standing by the door. It’s the front door of the house, but I don’t think it’s this house.
“So, the first thing I want my son to know is his mother is a goddess and will always look beautiful to me, even when she thinks she doesn’t.” That’s him again, his voice, but I don’t recognize the lightheartedness and love in the tone. “Sorcha, just give your message. He’s two days old. What do you want him to remember most about today?”
Sorcha smiles and looks back at him. Her eyes come alive when she holds her baby closer.
“I want him to know how much I love him and that his father is the love of my life,” she answers, and then I hear something snap. The sound drowns out everything else as I turn to Vincent and see he’s snapped the ballerina in half.
He does it again. This time, blood trickles from his hand. He growls and grabs the remote, switching the TV off.
As he whirls around to face me, face hardened and teeth bared, I rise to my feet and swallow hard, feeling terrible for my intrusion on his privacy. I feel worse and shock fills me when a tear tracks down his cheek.
It’s then that I know. I know deep down what happened to her.
She died.
“Get out!” Vincent snarls, furious. “Fucking get out!”
Shame fills me as I rush out.
It takes me to my room, and I wish I could run away, run outside and never come back.
I can’t do that though. I’m bound here as long as I owe him.
And I just made things worse.