9

I realized that the Manor was in some way speaking to me the first time I thought about ending my life. Mentally exhausted from the monotony of my confined existence, I began to be less interested with the things I had been doing for the last few years to pass the time. There were fewer surprises behind every door and hallway and I was finding my own company to be increasingly unsavory by the day.

I missed human contact. While it was almost inconceivable to think I would ever see a day where I would feel the loss of society functions, or the ostentatious estate with Matthew that had never been home, I did long for the company of others, and the friendship I had had with Aisling.

I missed her sky blue eyes that would sparkle inquisitively whenever we had the chance to explore each other's interests. I missed her light laugh and soft touch when she would brush my hair and help me dress. Despite the adversity of our situation, she never let it consume her like it had me. There was hurt, fear, and a fair bit of anger, as of course there would be, but Aisling always had a way of making things around her brighter. Without her company I was completely in darkness. The rage that had long been pent up inside me from the injustices I experienced at the hand of my husband, only seemed to grow and thrive in my solitude.

“Why am I here?” I had screamed once, not having anyone to direct my anger at, but feeling those ever present eyes on me all the same.

I grabbed the nearest item to me, a decorative vase, and hurled it at the wall. It shattered loudly and hit the floor in a million tinkling porcelain pieces. I stood there, breathing heavily as the cloud of rage began to clear. Feeling frustrated and foolish I crouched next to the mess and began cleaning. I palmed a large shard and stared at it. The glaze of the porcelain was ivory and decorated intricately with blue hand-painted florals. I turned it over in my hand and took in a thin breath when the sharp edge sliced cleanly through my skin. The cut was a fine deep slash that stayed pink and cavernous before it began welling with blood.

I shifted from my crouch to the floor, my legs crossing beneath me as I examined my hand. I extended my fingers and it pulled the cut open wider, blood seeping in the cup of my palm and dripping down my wrist to collect in my cuff. It stung something fierce and it was exhilarating. Like a cork being released on a bottle of champagne, it was as though the built up pressure of my mental anguish finally had a release through the physical pain. I flexed my hand again and relished in the stinging sensation it produced. I sat in contemplation until the sunlight from the window passed from one end of the room to the other, and then disappeared altogether. My head was not only dizzy with the loss of blood, but the thoughts that were seeping from the dark corners of my mind.

I never really tired anymore, not like before I had come to the Manor. I could still sleep, but I very seldom dreamed and though I never hungered, I could eat… with my basic needs always met it left a lot of time for getting lost, whether it be wandering through the Manor or the grounds, or most dangerously— in my mind.

Now, my mind had wandered to a place I had not yet explored; would death be the ultimate escape? I had not truly considered it before as I honestly was not sure I wasn’t already dead. I thought back to the gruesome scene with Agatha, and the fire that had consumed the Manor after. More than a small part of me believed that I had died that night and that this fa?ade of a life I had been living these last few years had been perhaps… purgatory? But though I did not hunger, or require sleep, I did feel pain, and I could bleed. That much I had just proven.

I came back to myself slowly and registered that the cut on my hand, though still painful, had stopped its steady flow of blood, and spectacularly seemed to be starting to heal. But the shard that I had cut myself with was missing. I glanced towards where the vase had shattered and gasped at the sight of the decorative vessel sitting in front of me, inexplicably whole. I stood and collected it, inspecting it closely. I could see no evidence that it had ever been broken at all, let alone shattered into a million pieces. It was not the first time something like this had happened. Often I would put something down, only to come back to it in a completely different place from where I left it. I equated it to the madness of the situation, the delusions of a confused mind, but this… I had evidence that this had happened, it was torn into my palm.

I had spent years wandering the seemingly never-ending twists and turns of corridors and hallways. Probing room after room content at first with just satiating my urge to explore, rather than searching for answers to questions I honestly was not fully prepared to ask. Now though, I wanted to know. I needed to know.

“Why am I here?” I called out again, my voice hoarse from disuse. I had long since given up hoping for an answer, but was feeling somehow renewed in purpose.

“Who are you? Why am I trapped here? What am I?” I said to no one, if only to hear the sound of my own voice echoed back to me.

For years of exploration of the Manor, there was only one place I specifically avoided altogether. The hall that lead to Agatha’s room. I shivered involuntarily at the memory. A cold fear nipped at the base of my neck and caused the hair on my arms to raise uncomfortably. There were answers in Agatha’s room, I did not know how I knew, but I was sure. I made my way up the stairs, and then down the hall, time passing in a blink before I stood at the door of the room, as if I had been placed there lovingly like a doll in the hand of a child.

I took a deep breath in an effort to prepare myself to open the door when it opened before me. Though I had been extremely uneasy, out of nowhere there was an overwhelming sense of serenity that consumed me whole. As if it had been whispered into my subconscious, I was being urged into the room with the promise of answers. The room I entered now was worlds apart from the one I had been in all those years before. Where before everything had been ravaged and thrown asunder now the room glowed warmly, with everything in its proper place, untouched by whatever malice had once devastated it.

I glanced at the bed, remembering the shape of the woman who had once inhabited it. There was no indentation, or sign that she had ever been there. The bedclothes appeared fresh and neatly laid out, an alabaster cotton blanket trimmed with fine lace lay over the mattress of the four-poster bed. It would have been beautiful if the memory of who had lain there before was not painted behind my eyes. I scanned the rest of the room with increased curiosity, and my sight set on the writing desk. I took a step towards the desk and, to my astonishment, the chair gently pulled out and away from under the desk where it had been, as if inviting me to sit.

I was aware that this was objectively terrifying and, though my years in this place had made me apathetic to some things, inanimate objects moving of their own accord was not one of them. Despite this, I was oddly unafraid. That unknown feeling of calm washed over me again, ensuring me I was safe to continue. I closed the distance between the desk and myself and noticed the many pieces of parchment neatly stacked, under the folded envelope with my name written on it. I let out a shaky breath.

I reached out behind me for the chair and felt it move to my hand and slide underneath me gently, tucking me comfortably under the desk. I again recognized that I would normally be frightened by this—but was not. Instead I was entirely focused on the letter that was addressed to me. Almost, as if involuntarily, my hand reached out and began to unfold it. I immediately recognized the penmanship as the same that had written the letter that had originally brought me here.