Blue Glass

Inferno

Quick postscript: If you don't like scenes that hint at or have to do with cutting and self-harm, then you might want to skip this chapter...:) XOXO

"I don't think I have to remind you to keep what we're doing under wraps," Manfred said sotto voce.
"No one knows," I said. Although it pained me to lie to him, I couldn't exactly tell him that I had let it slip to Svetlana. Then again, I would never have told her if she hadn't done her own investigating.
"I didn't think you'd be the kind to tell anyone." Manfred sounded immensely happy.
"Have you told anyone?" I asked.
Manfred barked a laugh. "Why would I? Who would I tell?"
"Your mother?" Don't all men tell their mothers when they're in love?
Just like the last time I mentioned his mother, an unreadable expression crossed his face.
"No." When he spoke after an ominous pause, it was with a monotone voice. "I haven't told her. Or anyone else for that fact."

The hot water wasn't doing its job today.
Or maybe it was that the memories that I was trying to blockade were too strong to be contained.
If there was one thing that it was doing well, it was making my second job easier. I looked down at my left arm, now a bloody mass of slashes and incisions of different lengths and depths. The water swirling down the drain ran red with the blood the steaming spray washed off my arm.
I couldn't feel the pain of what I was doing through the sting of the hot water against my bare skin. I assumed I looked like a tomato from how red my normally pale skin was.
Slice, slice, slice. I watched my skin split like butter being sliced under the onslaught of the paring knife I was using to score bloody gashes along my arm.
50,000 marks on the table by the end of this week...
I had never owned half as much as that amount at one time in my life. My salary was hardly sufficient to pay the electricity and water bills, as well as put food on the table and pay my mother's hospital bills. There was no way I could ever come up with such a massive amount on such short notice.
I couldn't even begin to think about Manfred. I didn't know what I would say to him if I worked up the nerve to call him. Just the thought of him made me start crying all over again. I wanted nothing more to lose myself in the security of his embrace and for once in my life feel that I wasn't going through this alone. I wanted to hear him tell me that he would take care of everything, that everything would be okay.
Sadly, that would never happen. If I called him with the news, he would probably be more interested in saving his own skin than making sure I was in good shape. He didn't strike me as that kind of person, but people change overnight when important things such as their honor and their reputation are at stake. They were probably of even more importance to Manfred given his social standing not only as minor nobility but a national hero.
The paring knife clinked against the marble edge of the tub as I set it down next to my right foot and buried my face in my knees. My heart was hammering in my chest so hard and fast I worried it was either going to break my rib cage or explode. I imagined my mother walking into the editor's office, letters in hand; slapping them onto the table and accepting the thick wad of cash they would be sure to give her. Manfred's ashen face as he picked up the morning paper, only to see—
I threw up seconds before I realized I was even about to. The inside of my throat burned as I bent in two over the drain, my jaws parted in an eternal scream as I threw up whatever breakfast Svetlana had ceremoniously forced down my throat this morning.
Good old Svetlana, I thought sadly as I rinsed my mouth out with the scalding water. She's the only one who gives a damn.
My co-workers probably would, although to tell them would probably be the stupidest decision I ever made, second only to keeping the letters from Manfred. Why had I kept those letters??? I honestly didn't know myself. I just couldn't bring myself to throw them away. They deserved to be immortalized, locked away somewhere along with the feelings they evoked, so I could feel them all over again whenever I reread them. Thankfully, today was a Saturday, meaning I didn't have to put on my big girl trousers, suck it up and go to work. Regardless of what my emotional state was, I knew that on Monday morning I would have to work up the gumption to drag myself out of bed, get dressed, and drag my sorry ass to my office. Herr Weber had been nice enough to cut me some slack for my latest AWOL, but I didn't think he would be so generous if it happened again.
I had no idea what I was going to do about my mother. Part of me was secretly terrified of myself, of the sudden, blind savagery that propelled me straight into her in a desperate attempt to get my letters back. I wanted to kill her at that moment. I felt a sudden urge to tear her apart with my bare hands, to see her blood sail through the air in a crimson arc and spatter the wooden floorboards beneath us, seeping into the cracks in the polished oak. I wanted to see the light fading from her eyes, those eyes in which I saw evil personified.
My fingers closed around the paring knife once more. My gaze slid to my left inner arm. The once smooth, flawless pale skin was now a maze of puffy red slashes that were now an angry red. They throbbed ever so slightly, although they weren't bleeding anymore; the water ran clear.
My eyes wandered to my calves, stretched out before me. If my arm no longer suited the purpose, so be it.
I shut my eyes and pressed the metal blade to the side of my left calf, slowly and methodically dragging it upward. Pressure, and then a sharp bite, the pain of which seemed to reverberate throughout my entire body. Then just pressure again as I involuntarily eased up on how hard I was pressing.
I moved a few inches down and repeated the process again. And again. And again and again, until it finally occurred to me to stop and regard my handiwork with the satisfied disgust of the depressed.
I shut my eyes, and instead of merciful blackness, I found myself staring into a pair of blue eyes, set into an angular face topped with blond hair the color of the afternoon sun.
What would I say to him? What would he say to me? Would he even look at me the same way again? Worst of all, what would happen to him if my mother decided to give these letters to the highest bidder?
A wave of virulent of hatred crashed over me. I never hated my mother as passionately as I had at that moment.
An idea occurred to me, and as appealing as it sounded to me, it was also equally far fetched: My mother had to die.
It would be a rather easy operation. I would wait for her to let her guard down and then come up behind her and slit her throat with my pocket razor. I could bury her behind our house, and no one would find out...
No. I wasn't about to become a murderer because of her. I wouldn't allow myself to stoop to that level of mental depravity. I wouldn't allow her the pleasure of watching me snap, even if it would be the last thing she would ever see.
But then what do I do??
I could call Manfred and tell him everything, and end things between us right there and then. I would have him give me the money—
He doesn't have that kind of money. He's an aristocratic commissioned officer.
My blood ran cold. If things had been bad before, now they were doubly so. If Manfred didn't have that sort of money...
But she doesn't know that—
My heart sank. My mother had only ever blackmailed me with those letters because of the "Von" in Manfred's surname. There was no logical purpose of telling him. The  only reaction would get out of him would be a brain aneurysm, if not worse.
I am the problem. That is why I need to go.
I could kill myself right here if I wanted to. The knife was in my hand, the door was locked—what better opportunity could I possibly have?
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. If I was dead, Manfred could easily tell anyone that published those letters that there was no one by the name of "Lea Schwarz", as the only known one was no more. He could sue my mother and the publishing company that showcased the letters for slander and get filthy rich off of them. Still, for an upperclassman to have even be involved in such a leak would be scandal enough, even if he managed to shut down the affair. His honor would go down the drain almost overnight. I could never do that to him.
Having rendered the first calf useless, I focused my attention to the other one. The pain from the repeated slices numbed my brain and soothed my tumultuous thoughts.
The only solution out was to give my mother the money she wanted, and hopefully buy her silence. And if I didn't have the money, and Manfred didn't have it either...
Heinrich. Onkel Reinhard.
The knife slipped from my bloodied fingers and  clattered to the base of the tub. I straightened up, my eyes wide as the realization dawned upon me.
I didn't need to kill anyone or kill myself in order to solve the problem. With a believable backstory and a few well-placed lies, I could be well on my way to shutting my mother up for good.
The once hot water had long run cold, making my abused calves and arm sting and throb with the pain. I switched off the shower and reached for the nearest towel, frowning when I wound it around myself and it came away with splotches of red blooming like macabre  amaryllises on the pristine white surface.
Around me, red water dripped off of my bare calves and stained the tile.

Later that night, after Svetlana and my mother had fallen fast asleep, I crept downstairs as quickly as I could on throbbing, swollen legs and picked up the phone. The clicks of the dial turning as I punched the numbers sounded eerily loud and echoed throughout the sitting room. My hands shook as I lifted the receiver to my ear.
"Schwarz." The voice was growly with sleep.
"Heinrich, this is Lea," I said, dropping my voice to a whisper. "I have a favor to ask you."