+1+
Clara.
I can remember my last day of freedom, The last time I was outside and seen more than the confines of the manor. The last time I was understandably free.
My father and I were at a stalemate over Henry Thorpe, and although I knew I should respect my father's wishes given all he had done for me; I stood firm against the marriage but agreed to spend a few rare occasions with Mr. Thorpe.
After school at St. Theresa's let out I reserved some time in the school's concert hall practicing my audition for the Hartman International Symphony. I hadn't told my parents about the audition, although not a rival the Hartman symphony was as far from my family's control as I could get.
The piece I was writing
had to be an original and I had been at my wit’s end perfecting it.
Mr. Thorpe picked me up at 4:00 (as I was still without a car) and we drove around town for a while in his convertible. He was fifteen years my senior, his tan skin was too perfect but his smile was honest. He kept up a lively conversation. He was also a Rochester Alum and had chose music over his family business which is how he came to know my father.
We stopped for coffee, talking about our respective music careers. His clearly more extensive than mine, but he hailed me as more talented. I had to agree, it lead to a small ice breaker that made the rest of our "date" go by with ease.
“Here we are”, he announced when we reached my parent's house
“Thank you”, I said unlocking the door.
“Perhaps I could come in ?”, he opened my door, “We could discuss the business of our marriage.”
Business
I sighed
“Mr. Thorpe. You are a nice man. . . I was hoping you could
make my father understand why I can’t marry you.”
“Why is that, we seem to get along well Clara.”
I laughed at his insistence.
"What about love ?", I asked him
Now he laughed
"Clara, there are billions of people out there. Many of them are married what are the chances they all love each other. Love is a developed emotion. We can love anyone."
“Well I don't believe that”, I stepped along the stairs idly, “More to the point, I’m in love with someone else.”
“Really, Who ?”
“I can’t really say, He’s a very private person”
“So private he could be made up ?”
“Of course not”, I smiled. he really was persistent, “but this revelation doesn’t seem to deter you”
“Companionship Clara”, he answered, “being alone can drive a person insane. Companionship does that sound so terrible Clara.”
"Of course not"
"How about you let me take you to mass this Sunday ? That gives time for contemplation doesn't it ?", he added coquettishly
“That's fine, but I’m really feeling very ill. .. I’ll have to say good afternoon, Mr. Thorpe.”
“Of course course”, he often repeated his words. It was a personality quirk and something I picked up quickly.
Once I was safely inside he went back to his car and began speeding off.
Truthfully I had begun to fell echos of pain from my accident for weeks now. I had seen the car and pictures of the "scene" when I was released. Everyone was always telling me how lucky I was to be alive. I wanted to tell them they had not idea.
Since Mother and Father were still out, I decided to take a quick
nap with a handful of Motrin. My childhood bedroom was just as I'd left it. A vintage floral wallpaper and a beige queen sized bed with a gold princess canopy. I had a desk for work that was cluttered with sheet music and my laptop.
I settled under my cover curling up with a pillow and a glass of warm milk.
I vividly remember listening to the stillness of the room and watching the way the sun reflected through the canopy, before falling asleep.
I was at home, where I was supposed to be safe.
Sometime before seven everything changed.
+++
Water was everywhere, I struggled beneath it to breathe before I came to the surface.
+2+
JC- Hurt
I opened my eyes to darkness.
I had grown accustomed to leaving a nightlight on just before dark, my first impression had been
that the lights had gone out, but I knew something was wrong. I was still tired
and my legs and arms all felt sore almost as if I had been dragged.
The ground beneath me was not my bed but a hard grain floor that was glossed smooth. My eyes began to adjust to the dark and in essence adjusted to nothing. My uneven breathe echoed against the empty walls.
Every wall and surface of the room was black, the drapes
drawn over the windows and nailed to the floor. I sat in the corner with my
knees pulled up, crying out of frustration and confusion.
My arms were sensitive to touch and although I couldn't see them I knew I was terribly bruised. Then realizing the aromatic scent flowing through the room,I listened to my surrounding and heard the gentle movements of water outside. Standing on my toes I reached up to the vent pulling off the grate and watching a cascade of frosted white andpink flowers fell onto the floor.
The manor on Chautauqua Lake
I struggled to understand why Mr. Fierro had taken me. True, I had been rather hard on him lately, or had he misinterpreted my desperation to get out of marrying Mr. Thorpe ?
There had been pictures of our smiling family, long list of prices and articles that droned on about details of the wedding. Could that have sparked a bit of dangerous envy in him.
Whatever had taken place Mr.
Fierro had never received his proper revenge from Grandpa. It was after all one of his main reasons for
living. It was because of this that I never let him know how close Grandpa and
I were. He didn't understand to hurt me was to hurt my family
I realized I was
barefoot and my clothes had been changed. The pajama pants and shirt I had been sleeping in had been traded for a
black short sleeved sheath dress and stockings.
I was dressed for a funeral, hopefully not my own.
My legs were sore and I collapsed underneath them. In silence I questioned his motives for several minutes, the drugs I knew I had been given began to sedate me again and I fell into an uncomfortable slumber
+++
When I was awoken again I was still in the empty room, two candles were lit in the room now and for the first time I noticed the piano in the corner. The piano appeared large and out of place in the small room, it was used and in terrible condition. Much like myself.
Under the candle light I observed the ugly bruises on my arms, I blew out one of the candles to dim the appearance of them.
I began looking for a way out of the room, I
shouted and pressed against the door but the room remained still, as if it was
deserted.The only sign that I wasn’t complelty alone was the bowl of warm soup on the
floor. It occurred to me that the soup was laced with drugs but I felt weak and didn't care.
“Addison ?", I called, “please let me go, please. . . I'm scared. Please talk to me”
I hit the door till my fist became raw and sensitive, tears I couldn't control were flowing. I threw myself at the door one last time, the rough grain grated against my bare arms.
Giving up I spent that second night (or it may have been day) digging and scraping at every surface. Maybe he had abandoned the house ? Or maybe there was a ransom.
I felt like I was falling into his strange delusions by playing the piano, but it calmed my nerves and frankly it was something to do.
I had fallen asleep after a while
and when I awoke I was still in The Black Room.
A four poster bed had completed the
bedroom; I laid in it feeling weak , I had refused to eat if he was
going to poison me. I knew Mrs. Beck was not allowed upstairs so she would
never find me. Mr. Ciani was an elderly man he would never hear my pleas.
Who else would look for me here ?
In the candlelight I noticed a new burn mark on my wrist and began to grow concern that , that maybe soon I wouldn’t be alive anymore, if I was even still alive.
Desperation it seemed had been the name of the game. My grandfather's desperation, pride and rage it seemed had lead him to murder and innocent man. Grandfather's selfishness, I considered,was how I found myself in The Black Room. I hated him for what he had done, that his beloved Clarabelle would suffer for him.
Maybe that is what this is all about, not love but hate. The hate we grin and bear for those we love.
+++
It went on like this day after
day, I began to lose my mind and played the piano to starve my anxiety. As I
started to play the more I began to realize that, I was always drowsy after half and hour. Not once could I make it through an hour long piece.
One day (or night) I was able to catch a glimpse of brown wing tip shoes by the door jam, it confirmed that I was in fact not alone. I made a ruckus.
“I can see you”, I yelled”, Let me out, please.” my palms slammed against the door, it did little but shake on the hinges. I threw my entire body against the door but it hindered more than helped.
In those days I feared for my
life everyday, wondering when I was going to come face to face with the end of
a gun, an axe or knife of a madman
I had been trapped in the house for only two weeks when I awoke to a local paper sitting underneath the bowl of lukewarm soup.
My picture was on the front page, the words ‘MISSING’ bolded underneath. I brought the candle closer and skimmed over the fine print. Mr. Thorpe was quoted as the last person to see me alive, he apparently wasn’t a suspect, but my case was being handled as a private manner.
There was no foul play, no crime scene, no ransom note.
As far as anyone knew Clara DeLune had simply disappeared.