The Seamstress

Midnight Plans

The woman lays on the table, gazing around at her broken dining room. This house was once hers. Perhaps if she had chosen a different path, she would have owned this place...

But she would be dead. She would not be alive, had she not chosen immortality, as gruesome as it was.

But that immortality is fading. She's barely holding onto life, as if only connected to it by a single string.

She's running out of time.

Not safe.

*

I slide to the floor, my face in my hands.

Not safe.

I clutch my bloody cheeks, scratching them in fury. I want the pain, I want to feel pain, feeling pain will make everything on the inside go away. I can't feel pain on the inside if it's on the outside.

Not safe.

Aunt Queenie's house isn't safe. My room isn't safe. Valven Manor isn't safe. The graveyard isn't safe.

Everywhere I go, she's there. She keeps coming and she won't go away.

"Electra?"

I jump, looking up at Aunt Queenie as she surveys me with her hands on her hips. "Where have you been?"

"I--"

"Do you know how worried I was about you?"

"I was--"

"For shame, Electra!" Aunt Queenie drops to her knees and gathers me in her arms.

What the--

I tense my shoulders, ready to push her away, but I don't. Aunt Queenie is hot and smells like sweat, but she's hugging me. Hugs are safe. Hugs can't hurt me.

I just want something that can't hurt me. So I hug her back. I hug her back as tight as I can, burying my face in her sweaty neck.

"Everything is so messed up," I whimper.

Aunt Queenie rubs circles on my back and I feel her shudder with a strained sob. "I know," she consoles. "I know."

I reluctantly pull back. "Can we talk about it?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "T-talk about everything?"

Aunt Queenie stands up so suddenly I nearly fall down. "No," she says firmly, her eyes suddenly hard, then sad, then hard again. "We can't. Not while she's listening." And she turns on her heel and walks off, leaving me to curl in a ball and cry, sobbing as loud as I want. I don't care if she hears me, because I can hear her crying too.

*

When I finally feel the energy to leave the floor, I go into the bathroom to take another shower.

Showers are safe... so far.

My face is throbbing so much, I want to scream because of it. Even after crying until my throat is raw and my eyes itchy, it still hurts.

I look in the mirror and hardly recognise myself. My glasses have cracked from the chair being thrown in my face, and they have several scratches from Sylvester and the Nummularius attacking me; my vision is obscured with several small smears, and now a giant crack that cuts through my left lens.

Well, if my parents ever need proof of what happened to me, I can always give them my glasses.

Because of all the bruising and cuts, my face has swollen. My lips are dry and chapped from lack of water--I've been forgetting to drink regularly--and my eyes are bloodshot.