Page 55 of Black Castle

“I didn’t,” Vivienne sobs, her voice breaking. Lucan is really gone. She never even got to touch his hair. She never got to hug him.

“You did,” Isadora insists.

“I said I didn’t. What part of ‘I didn’t’ do you not understand?!”

The words are out before Vivienne can stop them. Too loud. Too defiant. Too fucking bold of her. And the flicker of reignited rage in Isadora’s eyes tells her she needs to expect the next hit.

“Fucking disrespectful wrench!”

The slap sends Vivienne crashing to the floor. Pain explodes to her temple, her body absorbing the impact. But there’s hardly any time to process it all as Isadora’s fist tangles in her hair, yanking her upright.

A sharp gasp rips from her throat.

A second slap, then a third, a fourth and a fifth, until it all just becomes a blend of numbers floating around the dizzying room.

The next one is the most violent. It sends Vivienne stumbling toward the left, her hip colliding hard with the sharp metal handle of the pasta cabinet.

She hisses loudly in pain, hands flying to cradle the fiery scorch on her hip bone. Her body shakes, agony growing into a pair of bony hands, squeezing her, crushing her from the inside.

Another gasp breaks past her lips as Isadora’s hand fist her hair again, dragging her backward, the heels of her doc martens scraping the floor.

“Were you actually raising your voice at me just now?” she snarls, grip tightening around the hair, loosening the band until strands fall over Vivienne’s face, soaking in the hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

“No,” Vivienne’s voice quavers, her head shaking desperately and rapidly.

“The next time you raise your voice at me again.” Each word is uttered through clenched teeth, her gaze dark and vindictive as her nails dig into her jaw. “I swear, I’ll pluck that tongue right out of your mouth!”

Then, without warning, she releases her hold violently. Vivienne stumbles forward with such speed, and before she can catch herself, her lips are planting on the sharp edge of the marble counter, pain—hot and sharp—spreading across her mouth.

She fears she may have knocked off a tooth as the metallic taste of blood settles in her mouth. Slowly, she lifts her hand, touching her lips. It’s a wet and sticky feeling.

“Finish up the chicken,” Isadora orders, her footsteps receding, echoing down the hall a few seconds later. Then her door slams shut.

Then silence.

Silence. Isn’t that what’s always left after a violent storm? Silence, while the ruins lie around.

After a few minutes, Vivienne manages to drag herself to her room, closing the door behind her before sliding to the floor.

The sob bursts from her chest before she can swallow it down.

She doesn’t know how long she sat there, sobbing. Time blurred between shaky sobs, fingers clawing at her arms, and quiet screams. But when it feels like the tears have run dry and the weight in her chests dulls to a throbbing ache, she forces herself up.

Her face burns from all the fingerprints left behind, her limbs heavy, and her entire body hollow. But she manages to grip the doorknob and pull it open, stepping into the dimly lit hallway, heading for the shared bathroom.

The sound of the bathroom door shutting echoes through the quiet house. She walks to the cabinet mounted on the wall beside the wash basin, pulling out the tiny white box with a red cross sign on the body. She sets the box on a counter where there’s a half-length mirror, her reflection staring back at her.

She looks like a mess—a doll from a horror movie, perhaps, with dried tears and caked patches left under her lids from melted mascara.

Leaning over the counter, her face comes an inch too close to the mirror. She raises a hand, touching her swollen lip tentatively. It doesn’t hurt much. Or maybe she’s just numb.

She fishes out a cotton wool from the box, soaks it in methylated spirit, then dabs the lip with it, over and over, gently, until the blood begins to clear, revealing the surprisingly shallow gash.

She feels a little relieved. This way, it can definitely pass for a slip in the shower—that’s the story she intends on telling anyone that cares to ask.

Finished with her lip, she tugs down her plaid skirt, exposing the raw, inflamed skin just right above her hip bone. And it looks worse when seen through the mirror—red, swollen, angry.

She brushes her finger over it, and unlike her lip, pain flares, sharp and unrelenting, forcing a hiss out of her.

---