lar, twisted joy in my suffering. One morning, she "accidentally" spilled a cup of scaldin

concern. "How clumsy of me." She dabbed at my reddened skin with a napkin,

y fed her appetite for malice. Inside my head, I detached myself. This is just a body. It feels pain, but it is not me. I am somewhere else. It w

aning the mansion' s enormous, sprawling gardens. By hand. He gave me a small pair of shears and a bucket. "The weeds

and the constant pain in my chest was a burning fire. My hands were soon covered in a crisscross of scratches and cuts. Blood mi

?" she called out, her voice a mocking sing-song. "You look so... natural, down there in

ately carved bird, a miniature replica of a detail from one of my father' s early building designs. I remembered this. My father had carved it. He' d been teaching Julian th

that little girl again, safe and happy in my father' s workshop. I clutched

e bird. His eyes fell on the object

hat?" he asked, his

, holding it out. "Don't

used to be. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a cold, hard fury. "This is junk," he snarled, and with a flick of

ke he had thrown away a piece of my heart. The last g

son.' I promised. I promised him. Why did you do that? Why? This time, the voice wasn't just a whisper; it was a howl of grief and self-hatred. It was a co

as all too much. A sob tore from my throat, and I doubled over, my hand flying to my chest as a spasm of pain seized me. Tears

ached expression, as if observing a scientific experiment.

ing it in my pocket. As I did, I noticed the photo I had picked up from the floor the other night had fallen out of the broken frame. It was the picture of him and my father. I picked that up too. I took them b