Veil Over Madeline

CHAPTER 1: WRITER

Chapter 1

Writer

Sometimes, I have very dark thoughts while writing—thoughts so tainted that no sane person should ever have. The stories I want to tell don't just come from my mind; they're carved from my flesh and blood, drawn from my heart and soul. It makes me wonder—if I create something morally morbid, doesn't that mean, in some way, that I am ethically morbid too? My psyche haunts me, a constant, heavy presence I can never quite escape. I sit down to write, hoping the words will flow like ink spilling from a bottle. But no matter how much I write, no matter how deep I dig, I can never get it quite right. Maybe I'm ashamed; perhaps I'm scared. I want to write about my childhood. I think this would make my inner child happy since she always dreamed of being a writer. I want to tell stories of what I've been through, and how I've grown. Share the darkest thoughts and remain worthy of love. When I let the reader know the real me, I wonder if they'll hate me or love me. Can I truly show you the darkest parts of me, the ones I locked away years ago? Can I be myself without fear of you leaving? I'm desperate to get something out. My fingers hover over the keyboard—to at least say how I feel. Even if it's ugly, even if it doesn't make sense, but I can't. Something barricades my heart, and the pages remain incomplete. Since moving into Miller's Château, I've found every excuse not to sit down and write. It's a love-hate relationship. The moment I'm ready to speak, my dad calls. And, as usual, he's full of complaints.

"Maddie, I talked to your mom. Don't be stubborn," Dad says, his voice sharp and authoritative as always.

I glance at the screen, irritation bubbling up inside me. What happened to a simple "hello" or "how are you, kiddo?" I toss my phone aside, glaring at it as if it had betrayed me. Why does it always feel like he's dragging me into conversations I'm not ready to have? When I don't have anything to say, he fills the silence with nonsense.

"Why do you want everything to involve force? Do I have to force you to come back home?" he adds.

I frown, the weight of his ignorance settling between us. How can he not see? No one could ever force me into anything. It's not about that. He doesn't understand how fiercely I hold on to my independence and my choices. I want to be away from you, father. Away from mother. I need to escape. Twenty years of sacrifice was enough. I thump my head against the laptop, nearly smashing it. I roll my eyes at the ceiling, hoping to find some patience up there. The screen's glow feels harsh in the dim light, and all I want is to escape this conversation for just a moment. Force me? Seriously? No one could ever force me to go back to that hellhole. I had no childhood there—no room to breathe. It wasn't a home. Just four plain walls around a bunch of people. But of course, I don't say any of this to my dad. It would only start another conversation he wasn't willing to have. In his eyes, he had done everything for the family, but to me, he was just an absentee father with cheating tendencies.

"Spring term starts in a month. I'll be out of here anyway. Don't worry," I reply, my tone dry and curt.

My dad, Isaac Miller, always seemed destined for every achievement life offered—except the role of a father. He was emotionally unavailable, often a ghost in the room, burdened by a weight he kept hidden behind his sophisticated exterior.

"You'll be living an hour away from us! Driving back and forth worries me even more. Don't you worry?"

Oh, how will I ever survive? How will I survive in the peace I've been craving for my whole life? Some privacy and lazy Sundays. How dare I run out of home? I'm pretty sure any bookstore nearby is an hour away, yet I still manage to go out twice a week.

"Nope," I reply, drawing out the final letter like the pop of a bubble. I'm done with this conversation. My patience runs out after a few seconds whenever I talk to my father. After that, I'm exhausted, and I don't have the energy to keep the conversation going. Hell, I feel so much my whole body goes limp. I've tried to google my symptoms and all that it showed me was cataplexy. But you can't have cataplexy without being narcoleptic. Which I am not.