House of Glass

“No,” I said sharply. All the certainty that I felt from a few minutes before had evaporated. “No, that’s not what I want.” I only wanted to run.

“You think I care what you want?”

A realization dawned on me, fought up from the maelstrom of emotions and sensations that I was drowning in. He was full of hurt and anger, and something else, a recklessness. “I think you do care,” I whispered. I could think of nothing to do but escape. I backed away. “I think you care very much,” I repeated.

“Do you?” He stepped back and leaned against the wall that I had just abandoned and crossed his arms over his chest. He chuckled, and it was a horrid sound. “Then you fool yourself.”

I turned and bolted from the bedroom, across the glass floor, and the last thing I saw as I left the house was the gold statue of her, Celeste, the lost wife. He arm was reaching out to me and it seemed almost accusing. I slammed the door and ran up the stone stairs.

* * *

That very night I found out exactly why my door was locked behind me. After I had gone to bed, a group of men arrived, and I know for certain that they didn’t arrive by the gate, because I heard them climbing the stone stairs, drunk and rowdy, and I peeked from my window to see them racing across the lawn, carrying torches that flared in the wind.

They banged upon the terrace doors and someone must have let them in, because then I could hear them inside the house. Their greetings echoed down the long halls until they reached my ears as a muted, threatening sound. It quieted after that, for a while at least, and I had almost drifted back to sleep when a roar of laughter came from somewhere deep in the belly of the house. Not a moment later, there was a knock on my door.