Tʜᴇ Isʟᴀɴᴅ Iɴ Bᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ

Tʜᴇ Lɪɢʜᴛ Oᴜᴛ Oғ Rᴇᴀᴄʜ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 9

Breathe.

Remember what it is you're going to say.

You breathed out slowly, your forehead rested against the door to your lighthouse, your hand clutching the knob tightly.

By now the day was buried, the Sun digging its grave comfortably in the horizon. The first stars beginning to show themselves from behind a sheath of darkened colours. A chill hung in the air, gently caressing your hair, sending strands flowing across your shoulders.

Remember to breathe.

You opened the door slowly.

The hollowed-out comb of your house presented itself in the dark. The quietude of the echoing catacomb unnerved you as you stepped in, and shut the door behind you. It was somehow colder inside than it was outside and you found yourself pulling your body closer as you stalked toward the stairs, shivering. Did he not light the Stanley like you told him to?

Your anxiety emptied your anger, poking burning holes into your soul— draining you. Each step you took reverberated loudly around each and every inch of the room. Every small movement sounded like cracking thunder in the silence of the night around you, in the emptiness of the climbing walls you called home.

You couldn't hear him above you, you couldn't hear him shuffle or move, he was completely still. If he was even here at all. By the sound of silence, you were afraid he wasn't home. Was he at the pub? Or maybe he was in the outhouse. Or maybe, your anxiety was making you think silly things— excuses.

You swallowed a nervous lump, and continued up the stairs. Finally stopping at the kitchen.

And lo and behold, there he sat, just as you thought, with the back of his neck leaning against the table's length, his arms and legs sprawled out in front of him. Darkness ate him alive, the light from the window not even brushing against him, as if it refused to touch someone like him. As he noticed you standing there, he drew his head forward, so it hung limply toward you, his eyes staring up at you with that look you so hated, but so understood.

You didn't want to fall for it, he was asking for pity, it's what he wanted from you, wasn't it? If he had it from you, it meant he could have the power he once had, he could toy with you, take what he wanted from you— if he wanted anything at all that is.

You pulled your eyes from his, towards the basin instead. All the pity that could have been, now seemed so silly to you. You did pity him, but not for his misery, but for his utter stupidity.

Stacked in the basin were dirty plates, just like usual. He chose once again, to make you do the dirty menial jobs that he refused, like you were his personal maid.

Suddenly you didn't feel the pricking fingers of anxiety. You didn't pity his stupidity for believing you'd actually clean up after him. You didn't feel anything for him, not a single thing.

You weren't angry, you weren't disappointed, you weren't frustrated, you had no pity. You felt nothing at all for him. He wasn't worth your time to pity. You were above this nonsense.

With a small, careful step you approached him, his glaring eyes daring you to come closer.

You wanted to take Harper's advice, to scream at him, to belittle him the way he did you. But, with that one small step, you realised something, something you hadn't seen before.

And it made you pity him all over again.

It overwrote all the anger and resentment. You felt nothing but what you didn't want to feel for him.