Distraughtful Thoughts (1)

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𝔇𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔗𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔰

Displeased.

Bereaved.

"Argh!" Erin screamed; her voice muffled between pillows.

She had a string of adjectives she could apply to how she felt.

She was laying on her bed, thoughts running and face smothered into satin pillows.

She was annoyed about more things to count on one hand, but there only important thing: Sabina.

She had no progressions in seeing her aunt for months, and it was driving a stake into her chest. There were still so many things she needed to tell her. So many things she wanted her to know. So so so, many things and too much left unsaid. If only she could just see again. Talk to her again, laugh with her again, smile with her again and all would be well. 

"Saby," she mumbled.

She'd give the world to see her again, and have answers or clarity. A brief drop of annoyance mixed into her frown.

But there was nothing.

Every time she searched for answers there was nothing except for disappointment.

'Prince Kaelixson-Nier is taking care of her.'

'Don't worry over matters that aren't your concern.'

'Everything is fine.'

"Everything is fine, huh?" she said, angrily smothering her face.

She considered that the same fluff she had been hearing before her parents shipped her off to Marigold's. How could it be, she wondered, even after she returned, she was hearing the same things. They could just as well read it off a script.

She huffed, hot air spreading across her squished cheeks.

She just couldn't accept it. No matter if Sabina was ill again, she needed to speak to her for herself. How could she trust their word alone? They were liars, and the best ones too.

She reviewed her thoughts with disdain; her aunt was married to a monster, and she seemed to be the only person who recognized it. All the times he had tried to keep her away by having the Tricipital guards stop her from entering, informally banning her from royal functions, and even threatening to put her head on a pike if she continued to get between him and 'his wife'---she remembered all of it.

Everything that had happened was that 'Blessed Glorified' Prince Kaelixson-Nier's fault; it was his fault that her uncle was sent away to the farthest corners of the Tri-kingdom to the dangerous insurrectionist infested Dread Exclaves. It was his fault, Sabina was unwell. Everything was all his fault. She utterly certain.

She could not let him get away with it. But what could she do? 

She had no answers.

But knew she had to try, and if anyone could a mountain it would be her father.

Pushing with her arms she raised from her bed and got to her feet.

Creaaaak!

She cautiously crept out of her room, the floorboards creaking as she moved. Swallowing, she eclipsed her eyes; the blanket of darkness over the hallway corridor was a firm contrary to the lit room she had just parted from.

It was dark, stiflingly so.

A shiver ran down her spine.

"Uncomfortable darkness," she muttered, surveying the walls for a candelabra to make use of.

Although candles and artificial gas lights lined nearly most of the walls, the moment the sun fell, parts of the house still sunk into the shadows. What unlucky sight, she frowned, for it be one of those nights.

Sighing, she spotted a halfway melted candle flickering in the distance. She pushed up on her tippy toes and grabbed the 3-armed candelabra; the feeble flames from the single melted candle lit up a small radius around her.

She landed back to flat feet. Even with the light, it was still hard to see. Her squinted eyes bounced around the ghost corridor, the silence and darkness permeating.

It was not unnatural for her to be in the dark, yet never was she accustomed to it. Thus, she moved slowly and cautiously, her pace slowed to the consistency of honey. She watched the moving walls, her free hand protectively around her necklace chain.

For a moment, the darkness conjured up imaginations of childhood tales and silly superstitions from whispering nannies and gossiping maids.

'Never look into the third floor's east side room mirror under the moonlight.'

'Never step on your shadow more than twice in a row when passing the gaze of a Sutherton statue.'

'Never pluck roses from any of the manor's gardens at dawn .'

'Never run where the bones of Sutherton bodies rest.'

'Never move without respect, always bow before a portrait in the west great hall.'

Never, never, and 'Never this, never that, or surely a dreadful it will act.'

Whatever the dreadful it was always was up for debate. In fact, there were many 'this' and 'that's' she found herself losing track of which ones were bold faced delusions from servants and which ones were rules old as the Sutherton estate stood.

She paced slowly through the halls that were increasingly darker with every step. Her hand coiled tightly around the candelabra; the small flame appeared to burn weaker as the wax withered.

She swallowed, her was breath shallow yet with every exhale, it shook the weak candle flame.

She wasn't superstitious, but there were some rooms and halls she preferred to avoid at night---like the one she happened to walking through now.

She would have gone another way if her current route was not fastest although, discomforting.

Whooosh!

There was a draft of wind from some unseen distant source. It hissed loudly making her grimace.

Of all the whispers and stories, there was one she fought to forget.

And how could she? It was the only one that was true.

Psish!

Another waft of wind creeped by her and she shivered on impact with the cold air.

What was she doing? She questioned herself.

Why think of silly childish stories now? She knew they were silly, silly, silly things. But she never could stop herself from thinking briefly on them, especially the one of her grandmother.

Her footsteps moved a little faster, a sickening feeling crawling out from the pits of her stomach.

Naymath Sutherton.

She never knew the woman. Nor did she care for her.

She did not believe it was the responsibility of the living to think of the dead. But persistent they are. Indeed, the events that occurred a mere few years ago happened on the very floor she traversed carefully through. The same creaky floorboards. The same dark wallpaper. The same phantom noises of wind and air. And it was dark and cold, just like the night she once heard about as a girl.

Her mother had muttered to her brief tangents about what happened. Anya herself, wasn't there to see it, so the details always remained vague. Yet the incidents had grown almost like a legend. A twisted story where the living characters kept mute and hush about the true events.

Thus, Erin had only received snippets and tangled bits. 

A noisy child she was then. She was eavesdropping on tippy toes when she first heard the crumbs of what happened to Naymath.