Silent Heart, Hidden Desires

5

The silence of the house is a tomb, a suffocating weight pressing down on me. My fingers trace the worn grooves of my guitar case, a hollow echo of the music that used to fill this space. Yesterday, they sold me. Sold me like a piece of livestock, a burden to be unloaded. My own mother and sister, the people who were supposed to love me, the people who were supposed to be my family, traded me away for a handful of silver.

Their faces, cold and indifferent, haunt my dreams, their voices, devoid of any warmth, echoing in my ears. They never loved me, not truly. I was a possession, a burden, a nuisance to be disposed of. The memory of their callous indifference burns like acid in my throat, a constant reminder of my worthlessness. I try to distract myself, to focus on the rhythmic swish of the mop against the floor, anything to keep the tears at bay.

My body is exhausted, my spirit even more so. It's Sunday, a day that should be filled with the joyous clamor of our band practice. But Alistair declared it a 'rest day', his voice as cold as the marble floor I'm scrubbing. He doesn't understand, he doesn't see the way music breathes life into me, how it's the only thing that keeps me sane in this suffocating world. I want to scream, to fight back, to claw my way out of this suffocating darkness, but the fear of his anger keeps me silent. I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing a smile, and nod. Rest day.

The scent of cleaning solution hangs heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the music that used to fill this house. He's not here, of course. He's at his office, a whirlwind of deadlines and meetings, in his opulent office that overlooks the city, a stark contrast to the cramped house I share with him. My stomach rumbles, a reminder that I haven't eaten lunch yet. I've been so focused on making this place spotless, on proving myself worthy, that I've forgotten about my own needs. I force down a granola bar, the cardboard taste leaving me unsatisfied. Alistair deserves better, I think. He deserves a proper meal.

I decide to cook him something special, a dish that will transport him to a different world, a world of sun-drenched beaches and vibrant flavors. I'll make him Bacalhau à Gomes de Sá, a traditional Portuguese dish of salt cod, potatoes, and olives, a recipe I learned in my culinary class. The aroma of garlic and olive oil fills the kitchen, a comforting scent that reminds me of the passion I once had for learning, for creating, for experiencing the world. It's a world that feels so far away now, a world that I've been forced to abandon, a world that I long to reclaim. I pack the dish into a container, my heart pounding in my chest. I'm terrified of rejection, of him not liking it, of him seeing my efforts as an intrusion. But the thought of him going hungry, of him working himself to the bone without a decent meal, pushes me forward.

I arrive at his office, my hand trembling as I knock on the door. He looks up, his face etched with exhaustion. "Aurelia." he says, his voice weary. "What are you doing here?"

"I brought you lunch," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "I made it myself."

He stares at the container, his expression unreadable. "Leave it on the desk," he says, his voice flat. "I'll eat it later."

My heart sinks. I can't leave him like this. "I'll stay here until you eat it." I declare, my voice stronger than I expected. "I'm not leaving without knowing you're eating."

He sighs, a deep, frustrated sigh that makes my stomach twist. "Aurelia, I told you to leave. I'm busy."

"I know you're busy," I say, my voice firm. "But you need to eat. You can't work all day without taking care of yourself."

He stares at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of annoyance and something else, something I can't quite decipher. He finally relents, a flicker of defeat in his eyes. "Fine." he says, his voice resigned. "But you're leaving after."