Coffee and Cream

Arkys' Hell

                                                                                              EMRYS

The drive to my parents' estate dragged on, though time felt irrelevant in the haze of my thoughts. The mansion loomed as I approached, its grandeur lifeless under the grey sky. As the gate clicked open at the buzz of security, I felt nothing. Not a flicker of nostalgia, not a tremor of resentment. Just... emptiness. I parked at the foot of the grand staircase, stepping out slowly, almost savoring the unease that crept around me. The valet took my keys, and I barely acknowledged him. I watched the servants scurry to gather my bags, faceless and insignificant, like the pieces of this place I had long detached myself from.

Tim, the butler—an aging caricature of British servitude—had the gall to look surprised. "Master Emrys... it's been quite some time." His voice quivered, betraying the tension crawling under his skin.

I smirked. He was probably wondering if I'd slit his throat next. I could see it in his eyes.

"I'll go to my room," I said, cutting off his attempt to steer me toward my family like I was a child in need of handholding. "Is that where I'm staying?"

He nodded, his eyes darting briefly before he looked down. "Yes, sir. Of course."

I didn't wait for further comment, nor did I care. Upstairs, in the hollow cold of my childhood room, my bags had already been placed neatly, obediently. I scanned the room. Nothing had changed. It was still the same place I had tried to run from all those years ago. A prison masquerading as a palace.

But tonight? Tonight, I was no prisoner.

I stripped and stepped into the bathroom, letting the hot water scald my skin. The steam enveloped me as I ran my fingers through my hair, the memories trickling in like a slow poison. The night Skye had found my stash... his weak little hands rifling through my drawer like a rat sniffing out crumbs. He hadn't even the guts to confront me, no. He'd snitched, gone crying to our parents like the pathetic little boy he was.

My father's words—those ugly, jagged words—echoed. "A disappointment. A disgrace."

I smiled bitterly at the mirror. My reflection smiled back, a hollow, twisted grin. I could still feel the cold steel of the kitchen knife in my hand and the sharp scrape of the blade against Skye's pillow as I slashed through fabric and flesh. His screams still echoed in my mind—a sweet lullaby. I hadn't known if I wanted to kill him then or just scare him enough that he'd never cross me again. Either way, I wasn't sorry. Not then, not now. I could've finished the job. I should have. Next time, maybe I will.

After the shower, I dried off slowly, savoring the stillness. The familiar chill of isolation wrapped around me, just how I liked it. The air in my room was cool and stale. It smelled of old memories, forgotten. I didn't plan to leave this space for anything until I absolutely had to. My family could wait. They always would.

I grabbed my phone and flopped onto the bed. A quick dial, and Isabelle's name popped up on the screen. She answered on the second ring, eager as always.

"Hey, babe," her voice chimed through the line, soft and sticky with infatuation.

"Bella," I greeted her, my voice cold and detached, but she wouldn't hear it. She never did. She lived in her little bubble where I was everything, and she was obsessed with making me happy. Pathetic.

"How's home? Did you arrive safely?"

"Yeah, I'm here. It's as unbearable as I imagined." My voice carried no emotion, a flatline. "Just hiding out in my room for now."