Page 44 of Hearts Etched in Glass
Then my heart pangs.
How will they know where I am?
Did the receptionist give them my message?
Tears well within my eyes as a couple escape and run down my cheeks.
“Would you stop your whinging?” A voice comes from the door. A tiny slot opens and Meryll’s eyes peer through.
I run to the door and begin banging on it. “Get me the fuck out of here Meryll, this is illegal!”
“If you continue speaking to me like this miss, then I will leave until you can compose yourself like the lady you are. No wonder your mother is so distraught, those heathens have turned you into aclassless creature.” She narrows her eyes at me and I try my best to swiftly stick my hand through the small opening and poke her fucking eyes out.
She snaps the small wooden door shut, slamming my fingers in the process.
I let out a painful scream as I clutch my hand to my chest.
“Well, I wouldn’t have had to do that if you would behave,” she retorts as I feel my face reddening and the frustration bubbling under my skin. I didn’t think I could be filled with much more hatred, but there was a higher capacity that could be reached within my goddamned soul.
“You best listen or this will be harder. You need to be the good girl you used to be Tilly,” she says in that singsong, condescending voice.
I let my rage pour as I begin punching the fucking door, then wonder if I can fuel my energy to kick the door down.
I try this for nearly ten, maybe even twenty minutes. I don’t know for they removed the clocks from my room.
The heels on my feet ache. My knees feel swollen from the impact.
My knuckles are bloodied.
I didn’t realize I lost a fingernail from the small opening Meryll had closed on my hand, causing it to tear off.
My body slinks to the floor as exhaustion and defeat settle into my bones.
The frantic confines of my rib cage rise and fall with the pattern of my beating heart.
I can feel the blood pulsing in my jugular, as I stare at the ceiling and say a small prayer that Bobby and Marcus are somehow on their way.
Recollecting my apartment, I try to retrace if I have any items or hints, old pictures that would possibly show them where the hell I am.
But I can’t think of any.
I didn’t want any pictures of my past.
I didn’t want any reminders of my harrowing, cold childhood.
Raising my head, I feel the sweat clinging to my forehead, causing my hair to clump together. I jump slightly as a pair of eyes are staring back at me.
My own.
From the bathroom mirror.
The tension begins to build within my soul.
Though I don’t see the adult me.
I see the child.
The young lady from ages ago.
