IIII
IIII
Thalia knew she had taken longer to walk home than usual; every step felt heavier than the last, her feet dragging with reluctance and sheer exhaustion. The weight of the evening clung to her like the chill in the air, seeping into her bones and slowing her progress.
Finally, ahead of her, Thalia saw the silhouette of her grandfather’s house looming in the darkness. Its once-grand facade was now a shadow of its former glory, the crumbling stone and sagging roof lending it an eerie, almost haunted quality. Weeds crept up the walls, tangling in cracks and fractures as though trying to pull the structure back into the earth.
As she approached, her heart sank further at the sight of the flickering light in the study window—a pale, irregular glow that stood in stark contrast to the onyx emptiness exuding from the other windows. He was still awake. The knowledge made her stomach churn as she reached the gate, the iron cold under her fingers. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry and her palms clammy.
The smell of rotting wood and damp earth clung to the house’s grounds, mingling with the faint, acrid tang of smoke wafting from the study. Pushing the gate delicately, she cringed as its rusted hinges groaned in protest, the sound splitting the quiet night like a knife. Forcing herself to move forward, she tread carefully along the uneven, moss-covered path, every step measured and deliberate. The path felt longer than it should, stretching like some cruel labyrinth designed to prolong her dread.
At last, she reached the door. The wood was warped and peeling, leaning on its hinges as though it, too, bore the weight of the house’s decay. For a moment, Thalia hesitated, her hand hovering over the tarnished doorknob. Then, with a deep breath, she pushed it open, the wonky door scraping softly against the floor as she slipped inside.
The dim hallway welcomed her with the familiar scent of dust, dampness, and something faintly metallic. Shadows danced faintly against the walls, thrown by the sputtering candle sitting on a table near the stairs. Thalia closed the door as silently as possible, wincing when the latch clicked. She hung her robe neatly on the peg and removed her shoes, lining them carefully beside the others to avoid any reprimand.
Standing in the faintly lit corridor, she strained her ears, listening for any movement. The silence stretched on, heavy and oppressive, interrupted only by the faint creak of the house settling. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, each sound driving her anxiety further.
Then, the distinct creak of a floorboard came from the study, followed by heavy, deliberate footsteps. The light coming from under the door was blocked by a looming figure. Thalia’s heart sank as she instinctively straightened her posture, bracing herself. The study door swung open, and her grandfather’s shadow filled the hall. His face, stern and lined with years of disdain, was barely illuminated by the weak light spilling from behind him.
Thalia's body was trembling, every muscle tight with fear as her grandfather's furious eyes bore into her. His voice was low, venomous, as he observed her from the study door, the flickering light from the candle casting long shadows on his stern face.
"You’re late," he growled, his voice thick with accusation. His eyes traveled over her disheveled appearance, the creases in her uniform, the paint that still clung to the bottom of her robe, her hair a tangled mess. Every inch of her screamed disobedience and unruliness and his judgment was swift, unrelenting.
"I’m sorry, sir," Thalia whispered, her voice trembling as she bowed her head, unable to meet his gaze. "I was studying and completely lost track of time."
Her words barely escaped her lips, the lie so rehearsed it felt wrong to speak. She had not been studying. She had not been trying to improve her grades or earn her grandfather’s approval. If anything she had achieved the exact opposite.
"Liar!" he roared suddenly, his voice rising in fury. With a flick of his wrist, an invisible force slammed into her chest, sending her hurtling through the air.
Thalia hit the bottom step of the staircase with a sickening crack, her head rebounding painfully off the stone floor. The pain radiated through her skull, but the humiliation, the terror, made it all so much worse.
"You’ve been out and about with some no-good friends, dishonoring me and the Winterbourne name, you worthless letch!" he bellowed, his voice seething with rage as he approached her crumpled form.
"No…" Thalia whimpered weakly, pushing herself up as best she could, her good hand struggling to support her weight, but the sharp pain in her injured hand made every movement a sharp reminder of her vulnerability.
"No?" he hissed, advancing on her with a look of utter disdain, his voice rising to an almost deafening screech. "You dare answer me back?"
Before she could even comprehend what was happening, he was upon her, a force of rage and fury. He kicked her mercilessly as she lay on the floor, the heel of his boot landing with brutal force. Each strike was like a searing reminder of her place in this house, of her worthlessness in his eyes.
"Please, I didn’t—" Thalia’s excuse died in her throat as she gasped for breath, but her words were cut off when her grandfather grabbed her by the neck, hoisting her off the ground with a grip like iron.
In an instant, she was pressed up against the cold stone wall, the air squeezed from her lungs, the pressure around her throat unbearable. Her vision blurred, stars danced in her eyes as her chest heaved in desperation. His face, twisted in fury, loomed in front of her, his breath hot against her skin.
"I knew I should never have taken you in," he spat, his voice filled with disgust and betrayal. "I knew you would let me down. Always weak. Always a disappointment."
With one swift motion, he slammed her head back into the wall, sending a jolt of agony through her skull. The world around her felt like it was fading, the air too thick, her body too heavy. She gasped for breath, but it felt like she couldn’t get enough.
Her grandfather’s grip tightened, cutting off her airway entirely. Thalia’s vision darkened, the edges of her world turning black as the pressure grew unbearable. She felt the last of her strength slipping away, the tears streaming down her face, her hands useless as they struggled weakly at his hold.
As her face turned an alarming shade of red, his expression finally changed, something resembling satisfaction flickering in his eyes. He released her suddenly, and she crumpled to the floor, gasping in ragged breaths, her body trembling from the shock.
"You’re pathetic," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. Then, without another word, he raised his fist, delivering a final punch to her face with brutal force.
Thalia’s body was thrown sideways from the impact, the blow sending her sprawling onto the cold stone floor, her head swimming with pain and disorientation. The taste of blood was sharp in her mouth, and the world spun as she struggled to make sense of her surroundings.
She lay there, motionless, the sting of his cruelty etched in her skin, her mind a haze of shock, pain, and fear. Eventually she allowed the black that had begun to cloud her peripheral vision to consume her, praying that it would give her some reprieve from the pain that throbbed throughout her body.
Thalia's head throbbed as she slowly regained awareness, her limbs stiff from the cold. The wooden floor beneath her was hard and unforgiving, her body aching from the hours she had spent slumped in a heap. She drew in a shaky breath, the chill biting at her lungs, and tried to push herself upright. Her arms trembled with the effort, but she managed to sit up, leaning heavily against the wall for support.
The house was eerily silent, the kind of silence that pressed down on her like a heavy weight. Frost sparkled faintly on the inside of the window panes, casting a ghostly shimmer in the faint light from the crescent moon outside. Her breaths came in shallow puffs, visible in the frigid air, and she rubbed her arms in a futile attempt to warm herself.
The absence of light under the study door confirmed her suspicion: her grandfather had retired for the night. How he had walked past her crumpled form without a word, she didn’t know—or perhaps she did. It was just another reminder of how little her presence mattered to him unless she was failing to meet his exacting standards.
Shivering, Thalia’s fingers brushed against the raw, aching wounds on her hand. The skin felt tight and inflamed, each movement sending sharp jolts of pain up her arm. She grimaced, blinking back the sting of fresh tears. I can’t cry again. Not now. She told herself firmly, though the lump in her throat betrayed her struggle. Moving each limb in isolation she began to categorise her wounds, she definitely had at least a couple of bruised ribs, a split lip, bruised spine, and a wound on the back of her head that was sticky with coagulated blood.
Gathering what little strength she had, she pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly as a wave of dizziness overtook her. Her muscles protested, but she steadied herself against the wall, biting down on her lip to keep from groaning aloud. She needed to get to her room, needed to lie down before her body gave out completely.
Moving as quietly as possible, she padded down the hallway. The icy floorboards creaked under her weight, and each sound seemed to echo loudly in the stillness. Her mind raced as she walked, the events of the evening playing on a loop, mingling with old memories of scoldings, punishments, and the suffocating expectations that had shadowed her life for as long as she could remember.
When she reached her room, the door creaked softly as she pushed it open. The space was just as cold as the rest of the house, but at least it offered some semblance of safety. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her head falling back as she exhaled deeply.
Her room was sparse, the only warmth coming from a thick quilt on her narrow bed. A small desk sat in the corner, piled high with books and parchment. The walls were bare, save for a single, cracked mirror and a few hooks where she hung her robes. The only sign of life in the room was a small clock ticking softly on her nightstand.
Crossing the room, Thalia pulled the quilt off her bed and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders before sitting down on the edge of the mattress. With trembling hands she pulled open the battered drawer of her nightstand. Inside, amidst scraps of parchment and stray quills, was a small tin of antiseptic and a few hastily folded bandages. She placed them on the bed beside her, her movements deliberate despite the way her hands shook from cold and fatigue. Her breath came in uneven gasps as she unwrapped the tin, revealing the sharp medicinal scent of the ointment.
Unfolding the blanket, she bit down on a corner, steeling herself for the pain. Gritting her teeth, she dabbed the antiseptic onto her raw, bleeding hand. The sting was immediate and intense, like fire racing up her arm. Tears sprang to her eyes, and muffled screams were swallowed by the fabric in her mouth. She paused to catch her breath, each exhale shaky and shallow, before continuing.
With trembling fingers, she wrapped her hand in a strip of gauze, knotting it tightly to stem the bleeding. The pressure was unbearable, but she forced herself to endure it. Once finished, she sat for a moment, clutching her injured hand to her chest as if cradling something fragile.
After a few moments, Thalia dragged herself to her feet and shuffled to the cracked mirror on the wall. The face staring back at her was almost unrecognizable. A dark, angry bruise blossomed around her left eye, and her split lip was crusted with dried blood. Gently, she dabbed at the lip with a damp cloth, hissing at the sharp pain. No amount of blotting seemed to help; the swelling was already setting in, and she knew it would be difficult to hide these injuries.
Turning her attention to the back of her head, Thalia reached up and gingerly touched the wound. Her fingers came away sticky with fresh blood. She fumbled with a cloth, trying to clean it, but every touch seemed to disturb the scab and worsen the bleeding. After several futile attempts, she dropped her hands in defeat, her shoulders slumping.
Thalia returned to the bed, her body heavy with exhaustion. The cold had seeped deep into her bones, and the quilt offered little relief. Pulling it tightly around herself, she let her head fall onto the thin pillow. Her hand throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and the ache in her head pulsed with unrelenting intensity. Despite her efforts, sleep didn’t come easily.
Her dreams, when they came, were fragmented and chaotic—a jumble of angry faces, mocking laughter, and hands grasping at her, pulling her down into suffocating darkness. She woke several times, drenched in sweat despite the chill in the room. Each time, she closed her eyes again, willing herself to rest, but the slumber that overtook her was never peaceful.