Dreamscape Chapter Three

I had expected to share the place with Esia, being reduced to the status of a maid - how I missed the comfort of Catrine, of knowing that you weren’t above or below anyone else - but to my surprise, Scarlett led me to a pretty little bedroom, clean and fresh, with crisp sheets tucked beneath a deep blue blanket on the queen-sized bed, in the main house. She stood in the doorway afterwards for a few seconds, leaning against one side, and I was reminded with a pang of the way Mama used to stand outside the bedroom I shared with Kalia, pressed up against the wall. We found comfort in the idea of her being there, watching over us.

Kalia, fearless Kalia with anyone else but tiny and timid with close ones like me, would have nightmares, terrible ones, that left her awake and gasping for air. She would me with a croak to fetch her a glass of water, a sip of refuge, but then beg for me to stay, tears running down her face, when I got up to get it.

Mama said that Kalia didn’t know where or who she was when she woke up. She told me that my sister would be fine, eventually. She was always right, but I never believed her, certain instead that Kalia was going to die, or was going to hurt someone. I wasn’t sure which was worse. Sometimes Kalia got so caught up in her nightmares that she would run her fingernails down my arms and my face until I bled, thinking that I was going to hurt her, that I was the villain. She never did serious damage, but my heart broke each time I heard her shriek.

“Are you all right?” Scarlett’s sweet, low voice brought me back to the present. “Would you like something to drink?”

I shook my head to clear it. “No. No, thank you.” Her quizzical expression caused me to add on to that. “Sorry. I’m just… tired, and a bit homesick.” She nodded knowingly, though I doubted she’d ever been away from her home or her family. Spoiled kid, but I guess she couldn’t help it.

“Well,” Scarlett said awkwardly. “Um. Esia is here if you need anything. Mother said to not disturb you tonight, but to tell you that tomorrow you will start, whether you’re ready or not. She also told me not to become friends with you, that you are just here because you were employed here, and to not get too attached, but…”

She was going to say more, I knew, but I also knew that whatever she was planning to say would get her in trouble. Fearlessly predictable, much like I was at her age. “Well. Better go along, then.” She nodded, but opened her mouth again. I gave her a gentle nudge, and with a rushed curtsy, she ran out of the room, clutching her skirts so she wouldn’t trip.

I sat still, legs crossed at the ankles like Cressinda Jamille’s had been, until I heard Scarlett’s soft footsteps fade away. After a moment, I got up to confirm that the door was truly closed, wincing as the floorboards creaked below me, before I let myself go. Finally. I collapsed in a pile on the floor, raking my fingers through my masses of hair, cursing the soft, fluffy white rug. I wanted to feel pain, true pain. I told myself it was the only thing that would ease my grief, doubt, regret, and pure hollow loneliness.

Why is it that the world looks the other way when we harm one another but refuses to allow you to hurt yourself, to harm yourself, to feel pain? When you know, when you are certain, that accepting it, giving into it, is the only way to make it go away?

If the world really wants to save us, as we teach the littles at Parlinheart, then why can’t it understand that we are really the only ones who know ourselves, who know the problem and how to cure it?

I sat up, crumpled skirts and tangled hair and tear-stained cheeks and all, against my wishes. I wanted to drown, to dissolve in a puddle of tears. I wanted to escape the world.

But no, that wouldn’t do. I was obligated to stay alive and work for Cressinda Jamille. I knew I could love the children, eventually, with a little effort. And being here would save me from being drafted to the Parlinheart Military Force. (“For Parlin. For us. For our country.” How I despised that chant.)

But still… What did I care about Cressinda Jamille? If she couldn’t find the time or the intelligence to raise her own children, then she could find someone else.

Would Kalia have wanted me to give up? Would she have given up?

The upsetting truth was that while she wouldn’t want me to give up, she probably would’ve given up had she been in my position. Fragile Kalia. She never wanted me to protect her, but I did anyway; I couldn’t help it; it was instinctive.

Protecting her was my way of loving her, when I wasn’t brave enough to show it.

I pushed myself up and walked over to my small bathroom, swinging open the door with a creak. I kept my head down until I was directly in front of the mirror, wanting to postpone it for as long as possible.

I raised my head, a chill running its icy fingers over my shoulders. My face looked surprisingly fine. Flushed and damp, yes. Hair tangled and knotted, obviously. My face appeared swollen right under the eyes, but I knew it was just from exhaustion and crying.

I picked up a clean, soft washcloth from a basket filled with rolls of towels and turned on the worn silver tap, running my fingers over the places where other hands had pressed. A steady trickle of warm water ran out, and I dampened the cloth and ran it over my face, starting gently because my skin felt raw, eroded by tears, and working up to an almost painful scrub. I dried my face with a towel, leaving it crumpled on the floor. I just didn’t care anymore.

Entering my room again, I drew the curtains closed even though it was barely sundown and I hadn’t eaten since that morning. I was feeling a bit light-headed, now looking back at it probably because I was famished, but back then I was convinced I was going to die in my sleep. And that’s the way I wanted to go, I thought to myself.

I managed to change into a simple satin nightgown that used to be my mother’s (how the memories constantly haunt us) before collapsing onto the bed.

That night I cried myself to sleep.