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Chapter Eight

I can't stand up fully; if I do, my head hits the ceiling. My "bed" is really a mattress on the floor. It's clean, thank God, but hard, with springs that bruise me whenever I try to sit on it. Unfortunately, other than the floor, it's all there is to sit on.

I still can't believe Heracles. I thought - I don't know. That he was... kind. Honest. All those good things princes are meant to be. Maybe he was once. Who am I to judge? I can't believe how stupid I've been. I always thought I was realistic, would never lie to myself. But that's what I was doing. I'm not as heartbroken as I thought I would be though. I'm not as upset as books say you're meant to be. I still don't get how it would make Mother kill herself. I suppose it couldn't really have been love, then. Maybe I was lying to myself about that, too. 

I stare down at my hands in disgust. Only two days ago, I was so happy with how smooth and pretty they were. How feminine. How they looked like a lady's hands. Now they're slightly yellowed and hardened. As if a life that I have not lived slowly toughened them over many years. Surely - there must be some solution. Some way out. Even if there were, I'm in no position to find it. I'll be here until I die. Escape is pointless. Even if I did manage it, I have nowhere else to go, and it's not like I can just make a new start. 

I wish I had a book. Well, it wouldn't have to be a book, but something. Anything, really. Anything that can take my mind off my life. The ironic thing is that if I were a peasant in love, we would get married, move to a farmhouse, maybe. Farm animals, grow crops. We'd be as poor as dirt, and probably hungry, too, but we'd be happy. And, probably, in love. I think that's the only reason they get married, since I doubt it's for money or land. Though you never know. I get the impression, however, that there's not as much pressure on them as there is on us.

The door opens, and Heracles steps in. I breathe a sigh of relief. This is all a huge mistake. He's going to get me out. It will all be fine. He says nothing, just rushes to my side, like the tide, and pulls me up into his arms, kissing me. He's not getting me out. He's using me. I struggle, trying to get him to stop, but he's strong, and I can't, and he won't let go of me, and he won't get off, and panic rises up, stifling and unwelcome, and I can't think and I can't breathe and I just can't. And then I'm kneeing him in the groin, and he's rolling around on the floor now, groaning, and before he can get up, do anything, I scurry to the toilet, which has a lock, thank God, and I pull the bolt across and I'm safe.

I sink down, leaning my head back against the door, trying to steady my racing heart. My hands are shaking. I can't believe - what would have happened if I hadn't...? Nausea rolls over me, and I crawl over to the toilet, vomiting until there's nothing left. Sobs rack me, but I can't process. I. Just. Can't. Handle any of it. Oh, God. Will this happen again. Hopefully, no. Hopefully I've put him off. Maybe he'll leave me be now. Or maybe I've angered him. Maybe he really will kill me. No one will know. And even if they did, they wouldn't care.

I wonder if Ermelina will be sad when she thinks I'm dead. If she'll cry. Maybe. Maybe she won't though. Maybe she'll think it's good riddance. Still. I'd rather be there than here, no matter how it made my hands. At least they weren't wrinkled. Will Aemilia and Adelaide be sad, too? I never asked if they knew about the curse. Perhaps they did. Probably not, though. They weren't as bad as I thought they were though, not compared to Heracles. 

Heracles. I don't know how I feel about him. It's all mixed up - love and hate and confusion and hurt and anger and sadness and fear. I can't untangle it. Tangled. What a good way to describe my situation. I wonder if Father will even notice I'm gone. Probably not. He'll probably show up at the funeral, if Ermelina makes him, but even if he does, he'll be too drunk to remember it. 

As the adrenaline drains out of me, I yawn, realising how tired I am. I didn't sleep properly last night, and it's catching up to me. I mustn't sleep, though. I can't. At least there's no mirror in here. That's something, at least. Talk about small mercies. As I rise, unsteadily, I realise how long I must have been there for. My body is cramped all over, and I try to shake out my stiff limbs as best I can in the limited space. I press an ear to the door, listening. He's gone. It's too quiet - he can't be keeping that still. Slowly, I pull the bolt back on the door, peering around it. On the bed sits Adelaide.