Chante hovered over the desk, the edges of her nails worn raw as her eyes swept over the scattered papers. The numbers stared back, indifferent, no matter how many times she blinked. They should've been in the black, she knew it- swore it. Yet there they sat, a bedlam of failure in red. She dug her teeth into the torn skin at the edge of her thumb, her other hand twitching over the papers like she might strangle them into submission.
Across the room, Laurent sat by the hearth, the flicker of the flames painting his shadow long and spindly across the walls. He was bent over the canvas, his thinning hair shifting between orange and white in the dim light as he squinted over his work. The swish of his brush on canvas, once a comfort, now scraped against her nerves. His hand, thin as bone and trembling more than she dared admit, moved in hesitant strokes- a clock's tick growing slower with each beat. A stroke too long. A pause that clung to the air like a question left unanswered.
"Papa," she said, the sound of her own voice foreign in the quiet, "this can't be right." She waved a hand over the papers, her frustration staining every word. "Are you sure you're not missing something?"
He didn't look at her, his brush still moving in languid sweeps across the canvas. "Quite sure, dear one." His tone, steady and soft, drifted over her like a lullaby. There was a deft swirl of the brush that almost hid a tremor in his hand. Almost.
She pressed her knuckles into her temples, pushing back the pain behind her eyes. "If these numbers are right," she muttered, the words like autumn leaves in her throat. Sharp and dry. "The debtors will be at the door soon. They'll clap us in irons and march us off to the labor camps."
His brush paused, but his eyes remained on the canvas, distant, as if he were staring through the walls and into some-far off, unreachable place. "No need for dramatics, Chante," he said, his voice light, as if discussing the weather. "I'll sell my latest pieces. I'm sure they'll fetch a nice sum... like they always do."
Her chest tightened, the words painting bitterness across her tongue. "Papa, no one's buying paintings in the middle of a war. There's no money... no time for pretty things." Her voice cracked, a splintering of ice underfoot, breaking the steady rhythm of the fire's grumble.
His gaze drifted to the corner of the room, and for a moment, he smiled at something unseen, before returning to his work. "Pretty things are what people need in times of war," he spoke even softer, as if to himself. "They remind us of what's worth fighting for." His hand twitched, but he dipped his brush into the paint nonetheless.
She swallowed hard, the pain in her throat rising as she watched him paint a flower that didn't belong. "Papa, I-"
The words stuck in her mouth, heavy, useless. Her jaw clenched and her eyes slid shut for a moment. A burning sensation spread near the base of her skull, pricking at her neck and scalp. A part of her wished for an escape to her own mindless reverie in that moment.
She blinked hard, the sting in her eyes sharp as glass. She was sinking, perhaps already sunk, into something too deep to claw her way out of.
"Enough, dear one." He let the brush fall from his fingers, the clatter against the floor barely a sound at all. His body slumped into the chair, the shadow on his face betraying the years it'd borne. "This old man's tired." His head lolled toward her, a small faint smile curling at the corner of his lips. "You keep worrying like this, and you'll end up with wrinkles. A real shame for someone so comely."
She choked out a sharp, bitter sound resembling a laugh. Her hand moved toward him, but fell short, hanging uselessly at her side. There was an ache beneath her breastbone, a tightness that made it hard to breath, hard to think. He sighed, long and slow, his voice trailing off into the room like a ghost slipping away.
"Not that I'd mind," he murmured, eyelids fluttering closed."But I hear some women are particular about such things. Still, I'd prefer it if you didn't."
He was again lost in some dreamworld where the war and debt couldn't touch him. He mumbled a name. Not hers. His brush dipped into the vivid blue paint, filling petals that didn't belong. He slumped into his chair, brush rolling from his fingertips, and clattering to the floor. Speaking to shadows only he could see. Unheard words that bound her limbs in lead, dragging her down, while also calling out like a lighthouse in a raging sea. If only she could reach it.
Her limbs felt heavy as she crossed the room to the old trunk. The latch fought her trembling hands until it gave. The lid creaked open and memories flooded her senses. Inside, the blanket was too soft, as if it would disintegrate under her touch. She pressed it to her face, the scent of cedar and turpentine clinging to the wool, mixed with the faint sharpness of soap. Beneath that, a whisper of lavender and roses, a scent that didn't belong to her, but lingered in the air like an echo. Distant. Unreachable.
Her breath caught as she draped the blanket over his shoulders. He sunk deeper into the buttery leather of the chair, sagging under the weight of sleep and age. A fragile shell that once commanded a room.
Chante bent down, her movements slowed with the weight of knowing too much, and holding too little. Her lips brushed the crown of his head, where his downy white hair lay like the last snowfall of winter. She pressed her cheek against it, the warmth of him a soft hum beneath her skin. She wished it could last. That it could tether him here, with her, for just a moment longer. But she knew. He was fading. A hollow figure, crumbling in a room of forgotten days and faded colors. The peace here, fragile as a spider's web, felt more like an illusion than a truth she could trust.
Laurent stirred, his body shifting under the blanket, his eyes fluttering open- wide and unfocused, an old owl blinking at the world, not quite recognizing the shapes before it. His brow furrowed, his gaze drifting from her face to the shadows of the room, searching.
"Chante?" His voice, so small now, tugged at the frayed edges of her heart. "Where's your mother? She was supposed to be home for tea."
The question twisted a knife buried deep in her. Mother. The word was agony in her veins, creeping up her spine to make her chest it's home. She froze, hand still resting on his hair. The silence of a taut wire stretched between them.
Her lips quivered, but she forced them into a smile, smoothing down his unruly hair with tender fingers. The gesture was empty, like covering a wound too deep to heal.
"Go to sleep, Papa," she whispered, her voice steady but brittle, holding back the tremor that threatened to break her.
She backed away, sniffing hard at the burning in her eyes.Every creak of the floorboards was a groan of a house on borrowed time, every crackle of the fire an echo of something that once thrived but was now dwindling to embers. Turning back to the ledgers, the numbers swam, dissolving into a blur of ink and tears. She swiped at her eyes, abrading the tender flesh below them. Weariness etched its story onto her bones as she clenched the edge of the desk with unfeeling fingers, trying to force the world into focus. As the weight pressed down on her in the hush, a thought occurred to her with a sick, gnawing ache that made her skin heat with shame.
Who would mourn the husk of a man long since gone?
YOU ARE READING
Monstrum
Fantastique📢📢Cascade schedule for chapter release. New chapters are released every Wednesday every week, except for the fourth week. No chapters will be published on the fourth week.✨️ In a forgotten dukedom, where shadows cling to ancient walls and whispers...
