Ruthless Obsession

Chapter fourteen

✧ Venturaeque hiemus ✧

✧ Winter is coming ✧

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My eyes feel heavy at the sight of such vibrant sunlight, peeking through my boring beige curtains in an effort to alarm me the day has begun. I shift in bed, covering myself with the many sheets and blankets my bed is stacked with.

The doctor said my body temperature has gone back to normal, but I feel cold, not just on the surface, I feel cold everywhere, in my veins, my blood, my heart. My entire body--down to my toes are cold.

I've done nothing but sleep and occasionally eat for the past few days since the dungeon incident. I have not seen Angelo once in all of my visits to the bathroom and the kitchen.

I throw my arms over my eyes and quietly groan out of soreness.

I half expect Maria to walk into my room with a fresh pot of tea and breakfast, but then I remember, she's dead. Maria will never walk into this room with a smile plastered on her face ever again.

The first few minutes of peace when you wake up are my favorite part of the day.

When my mother first died, she was the first thing I thought about when I woke up and that moment of peace before I remembered, was something I never took for granted; now I'd give absolutely anything to remember her voice and her smell and her touch.

The years past have weathered my memory, and I always find myself praying to god I don't forget her altogether. 

When my mother was alive, in the mornings, I would always find her outside on the wrap-around-porch, drinking iced tea, with her floppy hat and sunglasses. She always held a newspaper in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

She had tanned skin, like mine, and dark hazelnut hair. She loved the color white, her closet was full of white, white dresses, white shoes, white bags. Even her garden was filled with white roses.

She always wore dark red lipstick and when she kissed Eric and Antonio's cheeks, she would always leave smudge marks all over their faces.

I admired her so much at a young age that I would do everything she did, from wearing her clothes, to insisting upon helping her make dinner--even though I'm terrible at cooking.

My mother--like my father--is from old money, so naturally her family trained her in the ways of proper edicate and gracefulness and sent her off to get married to my father. Tradition, I guess.

And here I am, practically walking in her footsteps. No amount of admiration could have convinced me to want this life for myself.

I finally understand what she had to do. What she had to go through for our family.

There's no more words to express how much I hate living in this house. I hate it as much as she did, I'm sure.

Promptly, my phone buzzes on the bedside table, interrupting my thoughts.

"Hello?"

"Hi stranger." Gracie mumbles from the other line, mouth full of food. "Did I wake you?"

"No, I'm up." I say rubbing my eyes and sitting up in bed, peeling the blankets off of my sweaty cold skin.

"Well, I just thought I'd call to check if you're still alive."

"Yes, yes, I'm alive."

"Good," Gracie huffs. "I talked to Antonio at the country club yesterday." She says, in an effort to make conversation.