Upon A Star

Chapter 8

Celeste stood outside the front door of her house, the house that was supposed to be comforting, warm and friendly. Instead, this house gave her shivers.

As she stood there with her suitcase in hand, she felt a haunting chill rush down her spine and her knees weakened. She was softening like goo, and she felt like she was going to melt right there, on her own front porch.

The metallic key, which remained in her hand, patiently waited as Celeste finally took a deep breath in and pierced the hole. Clicking and turning and twisting the key to unlock the door was laborious, but eventually, the clicking noise that sounded, alerted Celeste that her house was now fully open and ready for her arrival.

This house did not smell warm and cosy like Nick's house. Baked goods, soft detergent were only a distant memory. Right now, she was faced with the wretched smell of alcohol that pierced her nostrils every time she set foot into that house that most certainly did not feel like home.

Footsteps echoed in the living room and a shockwave signalled into Celeste's fingers, causing them to seizure with panic. The police had supposedly been here this morning, collected the dead body and left. Was it possible that a recurring investigation was taking place?

"You're home," a familiar voice thundered and a shadow formed in the maroon, dusty armchair her mother had usually sat in whilst drinking away her sorrows.

"Who are you?" Celeste shrieked in panic and clutched the handle of her suitcase so tight that her knuckles flushed white.

"Don't you recognise me, you've only been away a day my sweet," and the voice registered. Her grip loosened and she approached the living room that smelt like her mother.

The shadow vanished from the armchair and it was standing in an upright position. The silhouette of a hand was placed on the outline of a curve – supposedly a hip, Celeste thought to herself. The vision came into the light of the corridor where Celeste was standing and there she was, alive and standing on her feet as if nothing had happened. As if she had not just been claimed dead.

Cora, her mother, appeared. And she was very much alive. Breathing the same air with Celeste. Her hair was alive as usual, in its black curls. Her dark eyes were still glistening and her bony face was still painted with lively colour of skin. She was not dead.

"I can't believe you've abandoned me," Cora maliciously echoed as she approached the trembling Celeste, who felt so frail and lightheaded that she feared she might faint.

"I thought you were dead-," and before the poor girl could finish her sentence, Cora slapped her daughter hard across her cheek.

Celeste cupped her burning cheek with the palm of her hand as tears threatened to rush out of her eyes due to the pain. But Celeste sucked them back and had to play the brave act she was used to playing her entire life.

"How dare you disobey me-," Cora hissed and snarled like a vicious predator. Her angry teeth flashed and her face turned crimson while a vein protruded from the centre of her forehead "I did not raise you to abandon me like your stupid father! You stupid, foolish, ignorant, failure of a child!"

And the tears fell. She cried silently as her mother cursed and spat and slapped her across the cheek, and across the hand as punishment.

But hitting her daughter did not strike as enough, so she took her half empty glass of Vodka and threw it straight at Celeste. The glass shattered into pieces on her wrist while cutting into her flesh and digging near her bone.

The shards of pointed and crooked broken glass pieces pierced and hooked onto Celeste's wrist and blood instantly oozed and ran around the immovable glass, down her hand, and down her fingertips. Droplets stained the floor and finally, Celeste's knees crumbled defencelessly on the cold, hard ground.

Her mother stared at her with such viciousness, such coldness that a biting chill crept in the house, even though all the windows were tightly shut and they were the only ones there.

Celeste couldn't help herself but let out cry, a cry for help, a cry from the pain, a cry so heart wrenching that made herself vomit everything that was disgustingly stirring inside of her.

Pile of green, gooey substance flooded the floor Celeste was kneeling on. Her mouth was dribbled with bile but she couldn't lift her hand and wipe away the sick. Instead, she crouched on the floor with her unharmed hand gripping the damaged hand defensively.

Cora spat cusses at her daughter, but Celeste did not respond. Her eyes were stained with salt and they stung from the hurt, the disgust, the tears that just wanted to be let out, just like Celeste, the tears also wanted to be free.

Suddenly, a knock sounded on the door when a familiar voice signalled behind it. Cora raised her index finger on her cupid bow and shushed Celeste, warning her that if she dared speak, or ask for help, there were more glasses where that came from. And if she ran out of glasses to use, she would find other methods of torture.

"Hello," the voice asked once again.

Celeste turned her heavy head back and noticed the door handle push down. She had left the door unlocked. Slowly and carefully, the door was moving inwards, and it was open. And there he was.

"Celeste! Are you ok?" He exclaimed and ran towards the hurt girl that was shedding tears as well as non-stop blood that smeared over his knees as he kneeled down on the floor opposite her.

From the corner of her eyes, Celeste noticed Cora sneak away. She was hidden, and he would not search for her. I mean, she was supposed to be dead? Or was it just her who was supposed to think that way?

He looked clinically into her eyes and she mouthed the words of where she was hurting. So he looked down at her hand, his jaw hanged open and his eyes transfixed on the deep wound.

Healthy skin was no longer visible on her wrist. In its place there was blood, muscle tissue and more and more blood. It continued to trickle down her hand, to her fingers and onto the floor. But she hadn't had the power to get up and reach for a towel. She simply knelt on the floor and waited for him to take the justifiable actions.

She waited for him as he called for an ambulance, and she waited as he placed his arms on her spine. And with an upward motion, he lifted her up and carried her bridal style. He held her, protectively and careful. She was damaged, and he was going to fix her. So he held her and they exchanged no words until the ambulance sirens blared.

"You'll be ok," he promised and she replied with no words.

She curled her lips ever so slightly and formed a thankful smile as she mouthed gratitude to her saviour before the paramedics rushed in.