“You can’t be too surprised. You had to see my name on her.”

“No!”

Something resembling battle cries fill the contained space only to be cut off by an abrupt crack, followed by a series of smaller cracks and pops. You can’t move, can’t see beyond that small window at the bottom of the door, but its enough to see the shattered remains of something burst and scatter, ice and blood and gravel. You hear frantic steps and a thud but can’t see anything, you think that might have been your dad backing away from Vee and into a wall.

Then silence.

“There,” Vee’s voice is warm again, a little satisfied with himself, but not overly smug. What did he just do? No one else seems willing or able to speak. “We just need to find your mother so we can head home.”

Its the first time he’s mentioned you directly, talking around you with your father. Its so strange to hear in this context, like he ran into Janie, lost at the mall, and wants to walk her back to you. You hadn’t let yourself entertain the idea he’d just take your daughter but the fear been wrapped around your heart like a vice.

You also resent the part of you that’s so, so relieved he plans to try to rescue you. Maybe he just knows having you around would keep Janie happy, but you don’t want to believe that. You’re exhausted and scared and you don't know if you'll ever be able to relax again. All you can do in here is think about how you’d got no fucking clue how to get out of this situation. You want to believe that someone else, for once in your goddamn life, came to help you. That you didn’t always have to save yourself. Please.

“What do you mean?” You can picture the little furrow in her brow, the way she must be frowning. “She’s over there,” Janie must point towards this side room. This cell you’d tried to pretend wasn’t one so she wouldn’t get frightened. “Taking a nap.”

You swallow, if only because that’s one of the few actions you can still control. No more delays, you’re going to have to face him now. You still can’t even think of how to react, how to deal with this. Your thoughts are swirling too rapidly for any one make itself coherent, leaving you dizzy and worn out.

Those were the days that concerned you. Whenever you could sense that she was about to break, you were quick to be by the woman’s side. She was your Godmother after all. And as your family had never really been one to raise you, Sylvia had. She hadn’t needed to. She simply had. You’d happily take care of the woman on those difficult days, considering all she’d done for you.

On those days, the days where Sylvia fought every single fiber of life, you were right by her side. You would convince her to get up, get dressed, and get some breakfast. You’d try to make her laugh throughout your morning meal as much as you could. You could see her thoughts spiraling across the table. Her eyes were blank, dull from all the overwhelmingness going on behind them.

And then you would suggest an activity outside of her house walls. If she was up for it, you would accompany Sylvia to something such as an art exhibit or to a park. Fresh air always helped. You’d make sure to steer clear of any known social gatherings, not wanting her to have to deal with the cliquey society of New York’s finest, not on days like this.

If she wouldn’t hear it, you’d at least insist that you two tour her own personal art exhibit at the minimum, to at least get her moving around. You’d spend hours silent on those types of days, but you were used to it. You’d talk to her, talk about her art, talk about your life, talk about her, talk about anything and everything to keep her distracted and safe with your arm linked into hers.

Slowly but surely, you’d start to coax the woman back to her vivid disposition. By the end of the day, you’d insist they go out to dinner, and by then, Sylvia would usually agree. (On some really bad days, you’d take her straight to bed, it just all being too much and unrelenting. And you made sure to let her know that that was okay too, that you would never fault her for wanting to start fresh the next day). If she’d let you wine and dine her, you could usually crack a couple of small smiles from her.

By the end of your shared night, you’d take the woman home, tucking her in and saying good night.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I am ever so lucky to have your company, that you tolerate me…” Sylvia would whisper, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

You’d blush.

“Anytime. And nonsense, I don’t tolerate you— I love you.” You’d whisper back.

This would make Sylvia blush.

“I love you too” She’d murmur before falling into slumber.

~~~

Sylvia Chamberlain Masterlist ~Coming Soon (;