There was much she had lost, over the years.
Her brother, never to take a breath.
Her cat, a mysterious disappearance but not unexpected. It had been a paranoid creature.
Her governess. Several, in fact. She had tried not to be too smug.
Her friends, or at least the opportunity for them to become such. Oh, but her mother had tried so hard during those early years.
Her decency. Her moderation. Her empathy.
Oh wait.
And then, of course, her family. Her dear husband, his loving parents, that perfect little domestic unit of his brother’s...
Her daughter.
All gone, so swiftly.
Even Hyacinthe had vanished for a while, taken by the sea and ruined by liberty. Poisoned by the promise of something better beyond the waves, lured to betrayal by a black man’s tarnished blade. She had returned eventually, of course, but not before forgiveness had amassed a fortune in price. Stella did not forget and had a patience born of pure conceit. All in good time.
She had lost her mind too, and now her soul. One might almost call her careless at this point.
The distant stare of her swamp-ish gaze fixates on a point somewhere over Hyacinthe’s head, a pinprick on the far wall perhaps, as the hand coveted and then released finds its purchase on the varnished curve of the chair’s arm. The coldness of her serenity radiates to the tips of her fingers, icy in their clench that soon relaxes enough to permit the slow, deliberate tap of fingernail against the timber. The drip of draining water. A clock’s tick.
Time passing.
She blinks, once.
“This is your fault.”
The soft delicacy of her tone renders it impossible to denounce, though the shock of the accusation hangs vividly between them. Stony, impassive eyes refuse the solace of contact, choosing instead to burn a proverbial hole in the thick oaken door that remains wisely shut. Her straight back, the arch upwards of her chin, the quivering resonance of a taut bow ready to let fly.
And yet, there are tears.
Treacherous misery.
And then, the twist of the dagger.
“Why is everyone else always the better choice? Him. Her. Him.”
The wounded swan deflates, graceful neck bowed under the weight of reoccurring rejection until, eyes lowered, the wilt turns her inwards. Her chin nestles against her collarbone, eyelashes fluttering against pale cheeks.
“The only thing I want is to understand what have I done to leave you with such loathing.”
The pierce of her gaze, finally making its mark, drives home the first sliver of frozen resentment.
“Enough that even she, he, becomes your refuge against me. You ran, to them, and I would know why.”
