Danse Macabre, trash of the count's family

𝖉𝖔𝖚𝖇𝖙 𝖑𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖙𝖍

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CHAPTER I :
DOUBT LIES TO BE THE TRUTH

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          YOU'D THINK, in the past years Anastasia has been married to Cale, she'd know everything about him.

And she thought she did, quite honestly. She had memorized every single little thing about him— not out of love, mind you, but out of duty— from the ways his hair folded, curled, and knotted with one another. Or when he smiles, chaos seems to seep from the cusp of his mouth, eyes gleaming and twinkling mischief.

She knows him, like the back of his hand. Knows him like how she knows the side of bed she sleeps in, the lines on her hands, and the scent of morning in her room.

Lazy was the words she'd describe him. Indolent and idle, as if his whole body was covered with liquid concrete and inertia. He says to her, when forced to go out with her on a date on a particular sunny day— I'd rather spend the day drinking in my bed, he says, hand occupied with alcohol, I'm sure you'd rather not be with me. She opened her mouth to disagree. Untrue, she wants to say. But she didn't, and merely watched his back, mourning the loss of chance— that his favourite hobby was just to lay down and stare at nothing for hours.

"You'd be the type of person to find the paint drying to be interesting." Anastasia remarked humorously, eyes downcast to her own drink.

He blinked, looking at her as if she grew an extra head. "How'd you know that?"

He also dislikes bitter things; almost to an extreme. She remembered faintly how he proposed to burn down every single lemon tree— to which he was shut down immediately by his father, thankfully— in existence, because, with his own words, it was nothing but a 'nuisance' and a 'devil's creation'.

"Tsk." He clicked his tounge, face set into a foul expression. "Those things should've been rid off, don't 'ya think?"

"Of course." She smiled at him. "Anything that displeases you." I'll get rid of them, is what she didn't add, taking a sip of the wine he offered.

No trees were burnt, but the servant were careful not to serve him anything bitter after that.

And, even if he might not show it, Cale cared for his family. From outside looking in, you'd find the thought ridiculous, almost hilarious, but Anastasia was as sure as the sun will rise that he was fond of them. He stares at them— when he thought no one was looking— adoringly. Yet, when somebody turns to him, his eyes seemed to turn cold, as if frozen with ice.

However, he was an awfully stubborn man. Instead of trying to show it, he pushed them away. Anastasia knew there was some sort of deeper explanation for that, but he was never one for talking. Actions speak louder than words, he told her once. So, she could do nothing but watch as the people in his family slowly cut themselves off from him from misunderstanding.

A bitter thing really, but there was nothing she could do. She was but a wife in the paper; their relationship held by nothing but a pen and a contract.

She thought she knew everything about him in a notch— well, not everything, she still couldn't figure him out often times, as if he was a puzzle and there was a missing piece she couldn't find. But she recognized him, memorized the color of his eyes, knows his small habits that he himself seemed to be unaware of.

However, somewhere in March, it feels as if she lost him. Specifically, at the twenty-ninth day of the month, if she recalls correctly.

It was a pleasant, yet monotonous day. The sun was already high up in the sky, tinted with a slight orange. It was already noon by then, yet Cale laid down on his bed, face flat on the cushions.