When The Beauty Is The Beast: Scar of the Past

Julie

When the pearl spoke to me fourteen years ago.

In the murky abyss of a distant memory, fourteen years ago, the room lay shrouded in impenetrable darkness. An icy chill clung to the air, yet my tiny form was drenched in sweat. My fragile heart drummed in my chest, each beat a desperate plea for solace. But there was none to be found.

"Mom!" My voice, a fragile tremor in the void, pierced the cold silence, reverberating through the dimly lit room. Its walls, adorned with faded floral wallpaper, seemed to hold forgotten secrets, while the heavy, velvet drapes blocked out even the feeblest hints of moonlight.

As my desperate cries filled the air, they dissolved into the vast emptiness of the room, lost among the shadows that clung to the corners. In the dim glow of a forgotten nightlight, my childhood toys rested silently on a dusty, old wooden shelf, a testament to a time when her laughter had danced through the room.

But she was nowhere to be found amidst this melancholic scene. She no longer graced the landscapes of my dreams, and the room, once a haven of warmth and comfort, had become a desolate realm where her lullabies remained unsung. The echoes of her tales of whimsy, once vivid and enchanting, now felt like distant memories, fading into the void along with her presence.

Why hadn't she returned tonight? It was a question that weighed heavily on my young heart, the room's shadows seeming to stretch and twist as I pondered it. Each dusty corner held a vestige of her, from the frayed armchair where she used to sit, her soft smile as she watched me drift into slumber, to the old music box on the nightstand, whose melody was an eternal reminder of her presence.

She had made promises, and her words had been a sanctuary, a reassurance that had cocooned me from the terrors that lurked in the darkness. The serenades she sang were a balm to my nightmares, soothing me into a peaceful sleep. Her vows to narrate happy stories when the night awakened my fears had transformed this room into a magical realm, where the monsters in my closet and under my bed had no power.

But last night was different. Her dulcet songs had been conspicuously absent, replaced by an unsettling conversation laden with words I was too young to grasp. She had mentioned leaving, and for a moment, I didn't think much of it because she always came back. That was our ritual. The stories of adventures beyond my imagination that she wove had reassured me that she was invincible. But why was it different this time?

My heart ached for her. It wasn't just her absence that hurt; it was the aching uncertainty that gnawed at my soul. My longing for her presence was unyielding, and each night without her felt like an eternity in this room filled with memories of her.

Aunt Stella, who had stepped into the role of a surrogate mother, was kind in her own way, but her insistence that I call her "mom" grated against my young heart. It was a falsehood, a charade that felt like a betrayal of the mother who still lived within my dreams. I clung to the hope that she would return, that this house would be our sanctuary once more. The room remained filled with whispers of her presence, and even the most elaborate tales Aunt Stella spun couldn't quell the yearning for my own mom.

"Mommy!" My voice quivered with desperation, tears flowing uncontrollably down my cheeks, mixing with the perspiration that clung to my face, my small hands clutching the duvet like a lifeline. The room, painted in soft pastel shades, appeared distorted through my tear-blurred vision. The gentle moonlight streaming in through the window cast elongated shadows across the room's toys and trinkets, giving them a haunting, surreal quality.

The footsteps racing up the stairs were like a thunderous drumbeat in my ears, vibrating the wooden floor beneath my bed, heralding an imminent presence. My heart raced, a wild, erratic rhythm echoing the turmoil within.

And then, in a rush of urgency, Aunt Stella burst into my room, her long dress swirling around her like a dark storm cloud, crossing the room in mere strides. She collapsed onto my bed, her embrace enveloping me with an intensity that felt foreign, a stark contrast to the gentle warmth of my mother's hugs. Her scent, a mixture of lavender and something else I couldn't quite place, clung to my senses.

My heart ached, and I pushed her away, the edges of her presence scraping against the raw wound of my longing. "Where is mommy?" I implored, the question tumbling from my quivering lips like shards of broken promises. In my confusion, I attempted to flee, to crawl away and escape the bewildering reality that seemed to shroud me. But I found myself huddled in a ball of sobs in the room's corner, my tiny frame clutching my knees in despair.

She insisted, over and over, that she was my mother. Her voice quivered with the weight of desperation, her eyes brimming with a frantic need to be believed. "Honey, I am your mom, and I'm here for you," she pleaded, her fingers reaching out as if to bridge the gap between us. But her words fell on ears deaf to anything but the whispers of my own doubts.

Shaking my head, I struggled to comprehend. The room around me, once a haven of familiar comfort, now seemed alien and unforgiving. I yearned for the gentle lullabies, the whimsical tales, the bedtime rituals that only my real mother could provide. The moonlight continued to play tricks on the shadows, and the room itself bore witness to the turmoil of my young heart, where the only truth that remained was the absence of the one I called "Mom."

Wiping the remnants of my tears with the sleeves of my pajamas, I stumbled out of the room, my tiny feet navigating the dimly lit hallway. The old, creaking floorboards groaned beneath my weight, as though echoing the heaviness that enveloped me. Clutched tightly to my chest was my trusted pillow, a comfort in this world of uncertainty.

Aunt Stella's desperate pleas followed me like a mournful shadow, her voice echoing down the hallway, declaring a reality I was unwilling to accept. The flickering candlelight from a nearby sconce danced upon the walls, casting eerie, elongated shapes that seemed to mirror the distortion of my world.

My resolve was unwavering; I was determined to sit alone in the parlor through the long, desolate night. The parlor was shrouded in shadows, the antique furniture covered with ghostly sheets that whispered secrets of days long past. The only source of light was a solitary, half-burned candle, casting eerie flickers across the room.

Her cries, like a futile lamentation, became the distant howling of the wind against a desolate landscape. My mother's presence lingered in the room, her essence hanging in the air like an elusive wisp of smoke. But her embrace remained tantalizingly out of reach, and that unfulfilled yearning clawed at my very core. I was determined to find her, to uncover the secrets that kept her from me.

"Julie, please..." Aunt Stella, her footsteps hesitant and her eyes a mirror to my own anguish, found me in the dimly lit parlor. She approached with caution, her face a mosaic of worry and sadness.

"You are not my mom! My mom doesn't call me Julie!" I retorted, my red-rimmed eyes filled with a child's despair. She drew me into her arms, and, in my weakened state, I allowed it. My tears stained her blouse, my small fingers gripping her clothing with desperate force.

"Please, tell me where my mommy is," I implored, my voice a fragile plea in the echoing abyss. My words were an invocation, a summoning of a love that remained stubbornly elusive.

"It's okay, mommy is here," she repeated, her voice carrying the weight of her own longing. Her gentle pats on my back offered a feeble consolation. I was too frail to voice my denial; I allowed her to hold me, her presence providing a fragile sense of solace.

"My mom is real," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "I always feel her presence. If she isn't real in the world... she's real in my heart." The words, though spoken softly, held the power of an unyielding belief. In the depths of my childlike heart, a delicate ember of hope persisted, an ember that flickered in the shadowed recesses of my soul, where my mother lived on, as vivid and enduring as the tales she once wove.