Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Up those stairs. Room 1.”
“Thank you. Please go to bed, Sister. I’ll see myself out.”
She nods, and I wait for her to leave before I head up two sets of stairs to the narrower one that spirals upward to the third floor. It’s where the two best rooms are. Madelena has one, and a student one year older than her has the other.
The halls are lit by soft lights, but the corridors are dark. I swear the faint smell of incense permeates the ancient wood here. I breathe through my mouth. But maybe I’m imagining it because the chapel is housed in a separate building far from this one.
I arrive at Madelena’s door and listen. All is quiet. I’m sure she’s asleep. I insert the key into the lock and hear the click of it unlocking. I turn the old doorknob and push the door open, careful so it won’t creak too loudly.
The room is shadowy, but there are two windows where only the sheerest lace curtains are drawn. One of them is open a crack to let in the cool night air. The heavier drapes are left open, and the moon casts enough light for me to take in the details. The desk with its books stacked on one corner, a notebook open with the pen laid across the page. A sweater draped over the back of the desk chair. Textbooks stacked on a chair pushed against the wall.
Two framed photos sit on the edge of the desk, a selfie taped to the front of one. I pick up the first frame to study it. The photo that’s stuck to it is printed on plain paper. Odin’s arm is outstretched, and Madelena has her head against his shoulder. They’re almost smiling. The one inside the frame is a woman and a boy of about three. Odin and their mother. Madelena is a carbon copy of her mother who is heavily pregnant in the photo.
I wonder how much of the events of the day her mother died Madelena remembers. She was quite young. It would be a blessing if she had no memory of it, but I get the feeling that’s not the case. The fact that her mother had meant to take Madelena with her—and that the imbecile father blames her for her mother’s suicide—must make it all much more complex for Madelena to navigate.
I set the photo down and pick up the second one. Something twists in my gut to see it. It’s brother and sister standing on either side of their uncle, Jax Donovan. They all have big, goofy smiles on their faces, and in the background is a roller coaster. The night she met me, she’d buried her beloved uncle. I’ll never forget the look on her face. How she looked like she’d been crying forever.
I put this photo face-down on the desk and shift my attention to the wall where she has a multitude of sketches haphazardly taped up. I recognize her style and have to grin. This looks to be the wall of obscenity. They’re like the rude sketches I receive. I’ve kept them all because strangely, they’ve made me laugh. The ones here are more serious. Most are self-portraits, while others are line art I can’t quite make out in this light.
One draws my attention, and I peer closer. This one is different. It’s her and it looks like she had a mirror in front of herself to draw the sketch because her head is resting in one hand, hair like a veil, golden eyes the only thing of color in the sketch. I peel it off the wall, and it rips a little where the tape sticks. I look closer. She’s not wearing makeup. And I’m wrong. The gold is not the only color. There is a subtle blue beneath her eyes, shadows like bruises. I try to read the expression in them because I’m not sure why this one has caught my eye. For one thing, it’s not her flipping me off, and it’s not flattering either. It’s too raw for that. Too real. Too vulnerable.
That’s it, I realize. That’s why.
I fold it carefully and tuck it into my breast pocket beside my phone.
A dresser stands against the far wall with a mirror on top. It’s tilted downward since it’s so high. The door to the bathroom beyond is left slightly ajar. I walk to it, lean in to see it. It’s small with a stand-up shower that would be too tight for me. There’s a cracked mirror over the pedestal sink and a toilet. A makeup bag sits open on the edge of the sink. It’s smeared with foundation. A tube of lipstick lies on its side, and I pick it up, open it. It’s a deep, dark red and it’s almost gone. I read the name. Car-crash red. With a shake of my head, I set it down. It’s apt, the name. Our lives are like a fucking car crash.