12

N o part of this Manor had been left untouched by me. It offered solace and comfort within its walls and I did as much as I could to care for it the way it did me. Even still, routine was the best way I had found to stave off the stark raving madness that could easily consume me due to having unlimited time. My first few years in the Manor should have ended violently and abruptly at the end of a rope because I hadn’t understood that. Unfortunately, there was no escaping that easily.

Though I had tried to end my own life, the Manor would not allow me to follow through. The post I had tied the rope to on the mezzanine had snapped and sent me plummeting to the floor before the noose had a chance to do its job. It was my first of a handful of failed attempts and it was also the first time the Manor had put me to sleep for an extended period of time. When I had awoken, I could tell a significant amount of time had passed due to the change in the seasons. It had been the dead of winter, and I woke to spring blossoms.

That was the first time, though it certainly hadn’t been the last.

I did my utmost to follow a routine to keep myself distracted, to keep myself feeling sane. As time had gone on I was granted more freedom in the form of the boundaries I was able to push out on the property. I was never able to pass the gates, always being flung back and locked up tight until deemed trustworthy again to go outside. But a field of wildflowers that seemed to go for acres had sprung up, another reminder from the Manor that I was loved and cared for. I was able to wander. I could walk out and explore, and press my favorite flowers. Often I would just settle down to read amongst them for hours.

I would cultivate the gardens, growing vegetables I didn’t hunger for, and saplings and flowers that no one but me would appreciate. I would explore the halls, looking for new rooms I’d yet to discover—though as time went on they became fewer and farther between. Some days, when I could feel the darkness in my mind clawing at my peace, I would float unclothed in the bathing room. I would expel my lungs of all the air I could manage and sink to the bottom, waiting until the burning in my chest was so great that I had to break the surface for oxygen, to remind myself what it felt like to be alive. To be grateful of the sanctuary I had been given. I kept a daily record of my goings on, as mundane and repetitive as they were, as a way to both fill and mark my time. Most nights I would sleep, though it wasn’t necessary. It passed the time in a way that helped to keep away the darkest thoughts that would creep in when the nights were unbearably lonesome.

Since the discovery of the library I had made it a habit to write in the mornings. I spent hours pouring over pages with a fountain pen that never seemed to run out of ink. I had filled multiple journals, with the memories of my life before I came here, the ones I could not bear to forget. The color of my mother’s eyes, the layout of our countryside home, the feeling of my father’s arms around me, the sound of Aisling’s laughter .

Time had a different way of moving in this place, and I seemed to have a different place in time altogether. I had marked what I thought could have been well over two decades in my journal, and still I remained unchanged. Any injuries I sustained, whether purposeful or accidental healed quickly, and left no scars. There were no signs of the extreme aging or sickness as I had seen in Agatha visible on my flesh. While I was relieved to not be deteriorating in a similar fashion, I did long to see the signs of time mark me in some way. Whether it be wrinkles at the creases of my eyes, or white hair growing amongst the auburn. But there were none when I studied myself in the mirror. My hair retained its natural vibrancy, my skin stayed taut, and the only thing that changed was the weariness behind my eyes.

Despite my efforts in routine and normalcy, I could feel the familiar shadows reaching for me again. Always there in the back corners of my mind, coating every day, every moment, every thought in a dark ichor that threatened to pull me under. Days where the loneliness was just too much for me to bear and everything I touched seemed to curdle and molt.

No book could hold my attention, no breeze could be sweet enough, no room in this blasphemous Manor worth looking through. The nights would stretch on forever and try as I may to sleep my eyes would remain open. Madness setting in. The blackness would take hold and over and over again I would picture the people I had lost, the years I had suffered and the inescapable endlessness of it all.

“ WHY HAVE YOU brOUGHT ME HERE?” I screamed out, grabbing the closest candle and throwing it directly at the glass wall of the conservatory.

It thumped unsatisfactorily against the panel. I shrieked and fell to my knees, my hands fisting the earth in an effort to keep from trembling with rage. As of late the downward spirals into unfathomable dark moods had become almost daily occurrences. The heated hatred rolled through me, my throat thick as I seethed.

“Why me? Why?” It was a question I repeated many times through the years, but never more than when I was in such a desolate state. I could not see beauty, it did not matter. There was no joy, no interests, no peace. Just loathing and suffering and a mind that never stopped turning.

The Manor never responded when I was like this, or at least I had never been in a state to notice if it did. I couldn’t feel the usual gratitude and love I normally felt for it in these moments. I hated it. I hated myself. There was no room for anything else. I was about to stand and storm off when, from the corner of my vision, I noticed a familiar plant growing beneath the Azaleas.

The small umbrella shaped white flowers of a hemlock plant were clustered together, almost completely out of sight. I leaned down further to inspect closer. Yes, it was a hemlock plant, one of the most poisonous plants that I knew of. My mind began to spin, the melancholy that moved me made a plan before I had fully thought it out, and perhaps that is why the Manor did not notice.

I fisted the flowers and pulled them out of the ground. I stood and hastily moved to my planting table, my mortar and pestle exactly where I knew it would be. Quickly I pounded the flowers, crushing them into a fine syrup. I then retrieved a propagation glass from the shelf above the table, and filled it with water from the pool.

I could see the branches of the tree begin to extend out in intrigue, the Manor unsure of what had derailed my tantrum and pulled my focus. If I wanted any chance in succeeding it would have to be now.

I poured the lethal liquid into the tube, covered it with my thumb and mixed it with the water. The color reminded me briefly of the tincture I used to make.

Maybe this time I would finally be set free.

It was that thought that did it. The Manor’s walls shuddered and the glass of the atrium creaked and moaned.

NO.

I drank.