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I didn't protest, although I was confused. I just obeyed.
I heard the lock turn from the outside. Funny. I'd never really noticed my room had a lock before.
I haven't been outside this room since that day.
No amount of crying or begging or pleading or asking what I'd done would convince my father to free me. He’s the type of man who doesn't owe anyone any explanations, so he's certainly never offered me any.
My dad's cook brings me food every day. I stopped trying to talk to him after my first year in here. I don’t even know his name. He never responded to me when I asked him, so I just call him “Cook” in my mind. He never speaks to me. I don't know if it's because he's cold and unfeeling or if my dad has ordered him not to. I like to believe it’s the latter. I've never thought my dad was a bad father. He’s never hit me or raised his voice to me. He’s never shown me any affection either. The few times he’s spoken to me, it was to explain why I couldn't have a birthday party. That I'd killed my mother. He stated it matter-of-factly, and that was that.
Then, he went back to ignoring me.
I’ve never been allowed out of the house other than in that small fenced-in area of the backyard. We live right on the ocean, but I’ve never felt the sand in my toes or the water washing over my feet.
I've never been to school. Dad has me do some self-guided online learning, but my computer is locked down, so I don’t have access to social media or the net. There’s no way for me to communicate with the outside world, although it’s not like I have friends, anyway. Unless I count the characters from my books.
My father’s not cruel to me. He supplies me with everything I ask for as long it's nothing to do with the internet or communication. I have all the clothes, books, paint supplies, and puzzles my heart desires. He gives me what he can, I suppose.
When I get down and depressed and feel like a captive, I remind myself how good I have it. I've read plenty of books about captives, and I know that most of them don't have the luxuries I do. Plus, I’m here with my own father, so it's not like he's kidnapped me or anything. I tell myself that he has a good reason for doing what he does, that he's noble and trying to protect me.
I don't always believe that, but I can pretend.
I may not be able to leave this cage, but at least it's a pretty one, and I can have almost anything I want to keep myself occupied. Just not the one thing I really want. Someone, anyone to take away my loneliness.
I don't know why he's kept me locked away. I’ve always assumed it was out of shame for the daughter who killed his wife by being born.
I feel a lump rise in my throat as I think about it for the millionth time. I committed matricide the day I was born.
And I guess being locked away like this is my punishment.
* * *
Alec
I'm standing on the balcony of my grandfather's house—well, it's my house now, but I still think of it as his.
I never thought I would be back here in my hometown, the city where I grew up. When I left L.A, I went as far away as I could—to the other side of the country, to be exact. I settled in New York, and I haven’t looked back. It's not that I have anything against the place where I grew up, per se. There was just nothing keeping me here.
There's not much love lost between me and the grandfather who raised me. We didn't necessarily have a contentious relationship, but he was no substitute for a much-needed father figure. Rather, he was just an old man doing his duty. And I suppose I'm grateful for that now.
I don't know why I was surprised when he left his house to me. He didn't have anyone else to leave it to.
I still have my apartment in New York but there's nothing keeping me there either. My business ventures have been so successful I can live anywhere I want now.
I honestly don't know if I'm going to sell this house or not. I figured I needed to come back and see the old place before making my decision. I don’t have particularly fond memories of my youth here, but I don’t have traumatic ones either.
It's simply the place where I grew up.
I look out over the ocean, watching as the last of the sun's rays glisten over the waves of the Pacific in a glorious display of pinks, purples, and oranges. How did I forget this beautiful view? It might be worth keeping for that alone. Of course, this view will also be a major selling point if I decide to list it.
Love it or list it. Isn’t that the name of some HGTV show? I don’t watch much TV, preferring to keep my mind occupied with work, but it sounds familiar.
My eyes are drawn to the mansion next door. My grandfather's house is nothing to sniff at, but it doesn’t compare to the luxury that sits next door. I remember it from growing up here, though I've never been over there. As far as I know, a widower lives there all alone—at least that's what I've always heard.
Several of the rooms are lit up, but my gaze is pulled to the glow at the top of the house. The house has a turret-like a medieval castle, although the style is anything but outdated. It's modern and tastefully done, a feat in contemporary architecture.
I can see right inside the window. There's an easel with a canvas propped up on it. Huh. Who'd have thought the old widower was a painter? I wonder if he's any good or if he's just one of those who dabble in it just to give himself something to do.
As I turn to go back inside the comfort of the house, a movement catches my eye in the window.
