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Of course I’m lying. I’m not ok. Why would I be?
I stand in the foyer windows, staring across the moors. England has such haunting moors, such rolling, wet fields, such places that are conducive to melancholy. It makes me think of sadness, of Charlotte Bronte, of Jane Eyre.
I don’t know why I identify so much with Jane. She’s plain, and I know that I’m not. I have hair like fire, eyes like bright emeralds. I’m not being conceited in admitting that, because after all, physical attributes are things that we cannot help. I am pretty, but I didn’t earn it. I was simply born this way, a product of a beautiful mother. Internal traits though, they’re important and praiseworthy. Jane Eyre is fierce in spirit, and I like to believe that I am, too. Fierceness is much more commendable than my pretty face.
To be honest, I almost wish that I weren’t pretty. It makes me self-conscious. People tend to stare, and when they do, I always feel like they’re staring at me because they think I’m crazy.
Crazy
Crazy
Crazy.
Just like my brother.
It’s like a whisper, echoing through the rooms of Whitley, across the grounds, through the air. Everyone watches us, my brother and me, to see which one of us will crack.
“I’m going for a walk,” I tell Finn. His head snaps up.
“Alone? You’ll get lost.”
“No, I won’t. I’m just going to explore.”
“I’ll come too.”
“No. Go get something to eat. I just need a few minutes to breathe, Finn.”
He nods now because he understands that.
I slip outside, out the door, away from the doom of the house.
The breeze is slightly chilly as I make my way deep into the grounds. I’ve come to believe that it never truly warms up here. The rain makes the lawns lush, though. Green and full and colorful. It’s viridem. And green means life.
The cobbled path turns to pebbles as I get further away from the house, and after a minute, I come to a literal fork in the road. The path splits into two. One leads toward a wooded area, and the other leads to a beautiful stone building on the edge of the horizon, shrouded in mist and weeping trees.
It’s small and mysterious, beautiful and ancient. And of course I have to get a closer look. Without a second thought, I head down that path.
The closer I get, the more my curiosity grows.
I can smell the moss as I approach, that musty, dank smell that comes with a closed room or a wet space. And with that dark scent comes a very oppressive feeling. I feel it weighing on my shoulders as I open the heavy door, as I stare at the word SAVAGE inscribed in the wood, as I take my first tentative step into a room that hasn’t seen human life in what looks like years.
But it has seen death.
I’m standing in a mausoleum.
Growing up in a funeral home, I’m well versed in death. I know what it looks like, what it smells like, even what it tastes like in the air.
I’m surrounded by it here.
The floor is stone, but since it is deprived of light, soft green moss grows in places, and is soft under my feet. The walls are thick blocks of stone, and have various alcoves,
filled with the remains of Savage family members. They go back for generations, and it makes me wonder how long the Savages have lived at Whitley.
Nearest me, are Richard Savage I, my grandfather, and Richard Savage II, my uncle. When did he die? And next to him is Olivia.
Olivia.
I run my fingers along her name, tracing the letters cut in the stone, absorbing the coolness, the hardness.
