...
❝He was the poison I was dying to taste on my lips.❞
...
I was a coward.
The coward who wanted to leave behind the wreckage of her life for the man who had tormented her for as long as she could remember. The boy who had spit venom at me gro...
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august 2005 — age ten
THE DARKNESS FASCINATED ME. Darkness, whether it be the one that we were all accustomed to yet still afraid of every night, or the darkness and history trapped in gothic, abandoned places. Particularly the medieval, statuesque and rich pieces of architecture that seemed as though they had survived everything on Earth. Wars, earthquakes, fires, bombings, you name it, those buildings had seen.
There was something eerily romantic about the way those types of historic buildings were wrapped in mystery, alluring in the way they beckoned you closer to discover all the secrets hidden beneath the walls. You didn't know anything about those before you who had walked the same halls as you, touched the same paintings as you or spoke in hushes in the same room you stood in.
I'd always been fascinated by that idea, yearning to visit ancient historical architecture, whether it be castles, mansions, abandoned hotels or even small cottages where there was faded evidence of delicate human touch.
But nothing could have prepared me for the mansion I stood in at that moment, surrounded by glistening chandeliers, antique yet stunning pieces of furniture and somehow, the overwhelming smell of money. It felt as though the room was about to swallow my body whole, holding their hands over my ears as they cackled and shared tragic secrets. Torturous secrets. Ones that would induce nightmares if I were to accidentally overhear even one word.
I felt goosebumps erupt over my arms, a chill travelling down my spine as I slowly walked up the spiral staircase, hand clutching onto the smooth golden banister. The stairs seemed endless, the mahogany tiles under my feet startling cold for a house that was lived in.
It was my first time inside this mansion, my third day in this town and I already wanted to leave, screaming my head off. I didn't know what it was about the place, but the aura of it just felt wrong. Maybe it was my ten-year-old brain making things up to put up with the change, but I'd had a bad feeling in my stomach since the second I'd stepped foot here. It had started off as a churn but it now felt like a build-up of fire that would no doubt make me combust with the smallest hint of gasoline. And it felt like this town would gladly offer that, salivating at the idea of ruin.
But I was trapped here. I couldn't just up and leave, because my parents worked here — in this very mansion — and the rest of my foreseeable future would be around here.
I wanted to beg my parents to leave, but I couldn't be selfish enough to do that. Even if the Vanderbildts had already started to work my parents to death; three days in and my mother already had dark circles under her eyes. She'd hurt herself in the kitchen earlier and was trying to get some rest in our little cottage, leaving me all alone since my dad was out to buy some tools.
Right when I thought about turning back around to leave, my foot finally hit the last stair and something urged me to walk through the corridor, just once, to see what was on the other end. It almost felt like a tunnel as I tiptoed across the ivory marble, wanting to stop and marvel at statues and portraits but too scared to let my feet pause. I passed the painting of a masked man, who somehow seemed familiar, holding a knife to the neck of a masked woman. Yet the image wasn't as terrifying as it should have been. They looked familiar with one another, their eyes and stances showing hidden passion.
