Placing my hands on the counter, I jump up and sit there, feet kicking the cupboard door that won’t fully close and think through my options.
“Even if I had money, I can’t go back to the city or I’ll be killed. And I can’t go anywhere else, or buy food because, well, I’m broke.”
I pause.
“Okay, so things aren’t looking great.” I rub my face and let out a loud groan, before jumping down, starting to pace. “C’mon, Golden, think of something. Starving to death in a mansion feels like the start of a shitty joke.”
Pressure builds behind my eyes as I pace back and forth, annoyed at the situation I’m in and can’t find an escape. Feeling like a boiling kettle with no hole to scream out my steam.
I pace faster, leaving footprints in the dust. Only a few weeks ago I thought I was done with sleeping rough and empty stomachs. But maybe that’s too easy, maybe I don’t get easy.
But, why the fuck not?
The building pressure finally breaks and a yell bursts out of my chest. Kicking over an old chair that shatters into pieces.
In the silence after, with my rage dying down, my outburst is satisfying for exactly five seconds.
“For fuck’s sake…”
More steam puffs out of me until I’m dropping on the ground next to the broken chair.
Without the pressure, I’m left with too much empty space for the cold and the hunger and everything else to seep in. Until lying in the dirt is the easiest thing to do.
“You really fucked up this time, Golden.” And it was big time, too. Apparently leaving quietly ain’t my style.
I watch the fluttering shadows the candlelight brings, the door under the sink squeaks as it’s blown back and forth by a chilled breeze. And I allow myself to be sad, just for a bit.
For exactly five seconds.
Then I stand up, because I always stand back up no matter what and dust myself off.
This place is huge, and I must’ve missed something. I grab my candle and summon my inner treasure hunter—time to go searching.
I go through room after room. I open drawers and tap on walls like I’ll find a hidden door. I search under wet newspaper growing mushrooms that I shouldn’t eat…
Right?
I shake the idea away and quickly go to the next room, not trusting myself.
I reach for the door, but something makes me spin around.
A shadow?
I search the dark corridors for…I don’t know what. The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I stand there for a long time with my candle flame flicking, hoping nothing—or no one—is there.
After a long pause, I turn back to the door, chuckling nervously at myself as I go inside.
“The library,” I say as I roam.
All the shelves are empty, dust motes hanging in the air like ghosts. I might've already checked this room over, but I still get onto my tippoes to search the higher shelves. Just encase.
Huffing out a breath when I come out empty, I take a few steps back when my foot breaks through a weak floorboard.
A scream shoots out of me as I fall back, blunt paint rushing up my tailbone when I connect with the floor. Somehow, still managing to keep hold of my candle.
“Shit!” I cry out, grimacing as I rip my foot from the floorboard and hug my leg close to my chest to see if I’vedamaged myself. But apart from a couple of splinters, I’m left unharmed.
Sighing and cursing, I’m about to stand when something sparkles in the hole I made. Excitement buzzes through my system. Leg forgotten, I crawl towards the new hold, eyes wide as saucers as I bring the candle closer.
