Page 80 of These Tears

The fog doesn’t lift so much as thin until the room settles into shapes.

Mattress beneath me. Wood around me.

Everywhere.

A low, slanted ceiling. Timber walls. A brass pendant lamp catching what little light there is from the window.

I’m on a king-size bed that is dressed in pale, soap-scented linen. A handmade blanket is folded across my legs, while the scent of woodsmoke clings to the air.

I push to my elbows, blinking until the room finally slows its spinning. Daylight filters through a curtain, washing the room in weak blues and greys.

Where am I?

A narrow bookcase is to my left, a few books pushed upright as if someone had set them there in a rush.

I squint at the titles. Mostly dark romance, some philosophical works and—

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

The recent past comes crashing back, blooming into a full-fledged migraine that has my eyes squeezing shut again.

I rub at my temples. When next I open my eyes, my vision snags on the far corner of the room. My luggage sits there – two bags stacked against the wall. One sits open, the zip dragged halfway back in haste, clothes disturbed inside.

Coldness crawls under my skin. Bags don’t open themselves. And the only time they open—

I look down.

I’m in my purple silk pyjamas Mum gave me for my birthday last October.

Did Anna pack this?

Then it hits—

He dressed me.

My hands dig under the blanket – waistband, underwear, strappy pyjama top. Nothing hurts where it shouldn’t.

Relief comes first. Then heat rushes to my cheeks despite my throat prickling as though I swallowed a fistful of hay.

A dull chime rings through my skull as pain ricochets between my temples.

I push upright, legs sliding stiffly from beneath the duvet as my toes curl against the icy floorboards.

Every movement feels delayed.

I zero in on a pair of small, navy-blue slippers tucked beside the bed.

My size.

I clench my teeth tight, but the chill wins out, and I slip them on.

There is a soft but distinct sound. A dry crackle of fire. A rustle of logs being nudged deeper into it.

As I turn my head, my senses follow the warmth all the way to a double-sided fireplace shared with the adjoining room. The doorway beside it stands open, letting more heat spill in as if the house is trying to lure me out.

I make it to my feet, still unsteady. My balance teeters as I cross the narrow space between the bed and the window, each step whispering against the wood.

My fingers grip the frame for balance as I look out.