Page 3 of Haunt

I throw myself back over the bench, my feet hurrying me back through the huge doors. I hear the nuns at my back call out, but I know they will not follow me.

Not to the hidden place I have found.

It feels like I am chewing on broken glass, shredding my cheeks, piercing my tongue, blunt pieces wedging in my teeth. Bile thick in the back of my throat, I race down the hall, shadowed from the sun now dipping behind fluffy, white summer clouds.

Clumsily, I rush up the stone steps, my skin crawling with the thought of phantom eyes on my back, hands on my flesh. I shiver, tripping over myself, my knees crash into the harsh edge of stone. Palms cracking as they splay out before me. Breath rushes through my nostrils in a low whistle. Chest heaving, I squeeze my eyes shut, attempt to catch my breath.

I’m being ridiculous.

I just need to calm myself.

Nothing is haunting me.

Nobody is here.

Everything is exactly as it was this morning when I was in complete control.

The air is warm, the gentle breeze blowing strands of hair across my face, the tassels of my shawl tickling my arms. I twist my hips, flip myself around, drop heavily onto my backside. Let my head hang forward, between my knees, my fingers scrub at my face, nails clawing down my skin. Pain flits through me, a breath huffs through my teeth, and I shove my hair back roughly, straightening myself up.

I look up towards the ceiling, the scent of incense heady above me as I flare my nostrils. I hate and love it. The smell. It is as familiar as it is painful, and I wish I could disassociate myself from my memories.

Nothing bad has happened here.

Well,not to me…

Just to the reason I came here.

This is to be my last day here.

Now that it is done.

I think of the body.

Stare at the dried fleck of blood I’ve missed on the back of my pale hand. I wish I didn’t see it. I wish I couldn’t see it. Groaning, I close my eyes again. Thoughts of clawing them out, stomping on them until they’re smushed beneath my feet. Hollow holes in my face where they used to be, run rampant inside my head and it brings a soft smile to my face.

Lifting a hand from my lap, I trace the tip of my index finger over the ridge in the bodice of my dress. The razor blade safely wedged in the boning of my bra. Instantly, I breathe easier. As I lift myself to my feet, I think about what I’m going back upstairs to.

The mess.

The dark.

That’s what I find comfort in. I shall cocoon myself away until early tomorrow. No one will raise the alarm that he is missing until then. Not since morning prayers today have already ended, and those, he attended. Whilst I read and rest and decide where I want to play next. Perhaps I shall head back to London. Seek out the boy I am so disgustingly lovesick for.

Perhaps I will carve his heart from his chest, lock it in a box, chain it in silver, wear the antique key around my throat. Replace the small, gold, heart-shaped locket currently snug between my breasts. The long chain he gave me. Gifted from his throat to mine.

A promise.

The only thing some days that keeps me sane. Keeps me holding on. Keeps me from losing my mind.

Such a fractured, tortured thing, the pulsing goo of organ residing miserably inside my cranium. It is a wonder how I ever would have ever made it to twenty-two without thoughts of him woven inside of it.

There is a tangled web of love and hate inside my aching heart. To wrestle with it would be suicide. So I leave it there. Let it sit. Festering away, eroding and corroding the rest of my insides. Acid drips slowly penetrating my soul. Not fast enough, but I can be patient.

I push myself up from the steps, take my time in righting myself, and calmly make my way back to my hidden room in the tower.

Her room is in a tower. The door only accessible via a crumbling staircase, partially hidden behind a stone statue of a weeping angel. Steps narrowing the higher I climb, it is a tight squeeze, my shoulders too wide, forcing me to finish the ascent sideways.

When I reach it, the room itself is small. There is one entry, one exit. Vast ceilings. Late morning light streams through a single gothic arched window set high in the wall. Cobwebs decorate wooden beams, an abandoned bird’s nest decaying high in the rafters. A single cot dressed in white sheets, small wooden table beside it, an old brass candleholder upon it, the white candle half burnt.

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