Page 12 of Black Castle

The alarm that must have snoozed earlier shrieks beside her again. Her head snaps to it. 7:00.

She sighs, her hand lifting to press against her chest.

I am not in that closet. Never will I be there again. I am here, in my room.

She repeats the mantra in her head, over and over again, until the panic fades away like smoke at the whisper of wind.

Kicking the cover off her body, she rises to her feet and crosses over to the door. Her fingers curl around the handle as she twists the lock and pulls the door open.

She steps into the hallway and glances briefly at the living room. No one is there. But she can hear shuffling and murmuring in Isadora’s room.

She walks over to the shared bathroom. About to sit, she notices that the toilet was used and not flushed. It is a disgusting sight, quite unusual of Isadora to use a toilet and not clean after herself. Did she forget? Was she in a hurry?

Dismissing her thoughts, she flushes the toilet, waiting for the water to wash away any sign of Isadora’s presence.

In exactly fifteen minutes, she is done brushing and showering. Kenji will honk his horn outside her house in under fifteen minutes. She needs to hurry.

Crossing back to her room, she quickly fixes on her uniform and her makeup—mostly concealer. She started using them when Isadora always left a mark or two on her face. Wearing heavy makeup has become a habit for her, regardless of whether her scars are visible or not.

Checking her phone, she realizes there is still time to make a peanut butter sandwich before Kenji arrives. So, tossing everything school-related into her backpack, she slings it over her shoulder and hurries to the kitchen.

The bread is already on the table. The peanut butter right beside it. Shuffling through the cutlery holder for the butter knife, she pulls one out quickly and dashes back to the counter.

The knife glides over the bread, smooth and effortless. But she stiffens, suddenly too aware of her surroundings when she hears the creak of Isadora’s door, then footsteps down the hallway.

The sharp scent of Isadora’s perfume fills the air before she even makes an appearance in the kitchen, her heels tapping with precise, clipped movement.

“While you are at it, make one for me.” Her voice is harsh and unkind.

Vivienne doesn’t gaze up at her. She merely hums a reply as she places her bread on a saucer and grabs another slice of bread.

“Stop acting like a zombie and hurry up, will you?” Isadora’s tone sharpens, piercing the air.

“Sorry,” Vivienne murmurs, her fingers trembling as she glides the knife unevenly over the bread. Done, she hands it to Isadora, still not glancing at her.

Her shoulders relax as soon as Isadora exits the kitchen, the groan of the front door echoing as she leaves the house.

Alone again, Vivienne is about to heave a sigh when she hears the creak of Isadora’s door again. Her body stiffens, back arching. Someone else is in the house. And that someone is definitely the reason the toilet was messy earlier.

Maybe Isadora got a new boyfriend.

Then she perceives it—a familiar masculine scent and the heavy sound of boots echoing down the hall.

It’s not a new boyfriend. An old one has come back.

The scent in the atmosphere shifts, replacing Isadora’s floral one with something darker, laced with the stench of smoke.

The person finally steps into the kitchen. Vivienne’s eyes meet his hard gray ones. And just like that. It all comes back.

The memory she suppressed two weeks ago.

Ian Griswyk isn’t the reason she relapsed and cut herself.

It’s like a whirlwind. A rewinded tape. Flashes scattered, disjointed.

…It’s the middle of the night. The kitchen tiles are cold against her feet. Her stomach is aching from hunger. But her back aches worse from Isadora’s horse whip.

She reaches for the bread on the counter. She just wants something simple, something to get her through the night. Then she hears the creak of Isadora’s door, a heavy footfall down the hall.

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