These Vicious Games (Seattle Undeground)

Chapter 33

“Hearts live by being wounded.”

-Oscar Wilde

I wake groggy. The bed is unfamiliar, no warm body curled around me. I rise, but quickly lay back down when my head throbs. I groan, rolling my head in the pillow.

The scent is wrong, the sheets are wrong. Everything is wrong. I haven't even opened my eyes and I know, I know it’s just all wrong.

“Miss?” Francis asks, alarmed.

“Francis, can you get Atticus for me. Something is wrong.”

“I…” He stumbles on his words. “I can’t.”

There. That.

Everything falls inside me. Because I know. I know Atticus is gone. Not with me.

“What do you mean?” I mumble, my stomach twisting in knots.

“He..”

“He left me.” It’s not a question.

“He didn't leave you, per se.”

I rise this time, ignoring the throbbing in my head, the knots in my stomach. “Then where is he?”

“He’s…”

“Exactly,” I snap. “He’s not here. He left, just like everyone always does. He fucked me and then shipped me off to..” I look around. “The fucking penthouse?”

I throw the covers back, “Well you can tell him I don’t want the stupid penthouse, the clothes. Nothing. I want nothing from him.” I stand, looking around for my shoes. Who cares if he bought them. I will be taking those, even though I just told poor Francis to tell him to shove it.

He doesn't deserve that, but honestly, do I deserve this?

No.

“Miss, I think you should hear him out, at least. Here.” He hands me a phone. The newest edition, unsurprisingly. And on the screen it says one new message.

Atticus:

I can practically feel your anger all the way across the ocean to our little island. I get it, I’d be mad too. Fuck, I’d hunt you down and drag you back. But I need time. Time to sort out who I am. Become something, someone who is worthy of you. Because I’m not. I don’t know if I’ll ever be, but I want to try, for you. And if I can't, if I can never be good enough, and let’s be honest, no one is good enough for you. But if I can't, I want to make sure you’re okay. So you’ll take this phone, the damn black card and the penthouse and not argue or give Francis any wrath. None of this is his fault. This is me, growing and evolving for you. For me. So, be patient with me. I waited years to get you back, I’m asking for a few now. -Atticus

Coward.

But I do as he says. I take all the things he’s given me and don’t give Francis any lip, because Atticus is right. This situation is not his problem. It’s ours.

“If I may,” Francis says, sitting a cup down beside me as I overlook the city. “I think this will be good for him.”

I sigh, “But I don’t want him to change.” I didn't fall in love with the prince, I fell in love with the beast.

“Healing doesn't change who you are, it just enhances it.”

So, I ponder that. Concluding that maybe, Francis knows what he’s talking about.

Francis accompanies me to the ballet that evening. I’ve always wanted to go but have been too poor or locked down by a douche to attend.

Silk baby pink lays on my skin and bunches around my waist as I take a seat in the box. Old fashion binoculars in my hand.

I wait with bated breaths as the lights dim, and a single spotlight takes center stage, the black felt curtain rising to reveal a beautiful woman, copper hair in a neat bun, sitting in third position.

There is a noticeable hush in the audience. As if everyone is as hypnotized as I am. She begins to dance, her body telling a story of sorrow and betrayal. The music sends chills down my spine, waking the vulnerability I’ve held inside myself all day. A tear finally breaks at the end of the show and I rise, clapping a little too loud for the social class I’m surrounded by. I don’t care though, I didn't fit in with these people anyways.

As we exit, my arm hooked with Francis, my eyes narrow on a man in the shadows, the highlight of a scar on his face. A group of people walk by, blocking my view for just a moment, but when they dissipate, the image is gone. Like a ghost in the night. A trick of the brain even. Making me see what I want and not what's actually there. And like the image, any happiness I had found, was gone.

Francis gets me out of the penthouse most days. Says he doesn't want me to fade away. Life is far too beautiful to be locked up like a prisoner. And, fine. He's right. There is a whole world I’ve missed. I think maybe he likes to get me out so he can see his new friend. An older woman who sells fresh bread at Pikes Market. Everyone deserves love, especially Francis. So I pretend something catches my eye as they chat.

“You should ask her out,” I tell him as we walk down the main street of Seattle.

Francis’ stride pauses, before resuming. “I’m not sure what you mean, miss.”

“Mmmhm. Sure. Look, you don't have to spend every moment with me. You can live your life freely. You deserve love too.”

“Sorry, miss. I have no clue what you are talking about.”

Stubborn old man. I’ll get it out of him eventually.