Brahms Heelshire¹

The air in the mansion feels heavier, colder, every time he walks through that door and leaves me behind. I hate the city. I hate the people who can't see me, and I hate the fact that they have their time while I'm stuck here, buried alive within these walls. I'm lying here, crushing a pillow against my chest, but the stuffing lacks its warmth. A toxic mixture burns in my stomach: hurt at being hidden, anger at being left, and a longing that aches like an open wound. In a snap, the frustration overflows. My fingers dig into the fabric with brute force, tearing the pillowcase until feathers fly like dirty snow across the room. I throw the remains against the wall, a silent scream stuck in my throat. I look at the closet. I know his shirts are there. His scent—that perfume that calms me and makes me feel human—is still on them. I want to wrap myself in his fabric, but anger paralyzes me. I drag myself to the window, watching the empty road, mentally begging for the car to appear between the trees. Without him, my body aches. It's physical agony, an emptiness that no secret passage can fill. I collapse to my knees on the cold floor, letting out a loud, ugly, desperate cry. It's a childish tantrum, I know, but I don't care. I'm a monster, a secret, but I belong to him. I sob forcefully, feeling my chest burn, destroyed by the certainty that, although I feel anger, I simply don't exist without his affection.