C92 Who Told You That?

Annabelle’s breaths came fast and uneven as the noise in her head pulled back, and the present finally breathed through the messy weave of her past.

She blinked as her vision cleared, and the room came into focus around her again.

It was nothing like the suffocating and broken space her mind had dragged her into in the past few minutes.

It was warm and beautiful even.

It was like a fresh start and a sanctuary.

A sanctuary he had created for her without her asking.

Somehow, he had known to strip off the madness of her past.

Just by changing furniture and slapping fresh paint on her wall, he had managed to give her a piece of herself back.

“If only it didn’t sit atop years of horrors.” she thought fleetingly as her fingers loosened around the gun she still held.

The cold steel pressed against her palm and her gaze fell on it.

A wave of nausea rolled through her as she realised what she was doing.

She followed the direction of the gun’s barrel and was horrified to see it pointed squarely at her mother’s head.

Mauve sat frozen in her wheelchair with her face pale and her eyes wide with terror.

Her hands were raised slightly and trembling.

It was as though she was expecting that even the slightest movement could make Annabelle shoot her.

Annabelle’s stomach dropped. “Mom!” she gasped, quickly tucking the gun back into her waistband. “Oh my God, I… I’m so sorry.”

Mauve didn’t lower her hands right away.

Her voice trembled as she whispered, “Annabelle… where did you get that gun?”

“I… I didn’t mean to…” Annabelle started reaching out to her mother.

But Mauve flinched, and she quickly wheeled herself back until she was out of the door.

With the threshold between them, she said, “Don’t come closer! Don't come near me with...that!”

Her voice was sharper now and edged with fear.

Her hands clutched the sides of the wheelchair as her knuckles whitened. “What are you doing with a gun? What’s happened to you?”

Annabelle stopped, her hands hovering in the air.

Her throat tightened painfully, and she could feel the tears welling in her eyes. “Mom, please, I wasn’t going to hurt you. I would never…”

“You just pointed a gun at me!” Mauve snapped as her voice rose. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you even see yourself?” She gestured shakily to the weapon tucked into Annabelle’s waistband. “You’re carrying a gun like it’s... like it’s a spatula in the kitchen! What happened to you, Annabelle? What have you become?”

“I’m sorry,” Annabelle repeated, the words tumbling from her lips like a desperate mantra. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Mauve’s lips pressed into a thin line as she finally lowered her hands, her shoulders still tense. Her gaze softened slightly, but her eyes were glassy, brimming with unshed tears. “You’re not the same,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “You’re not my sweet Annabelle. My sweet girl would never do anything like this. The girl I know would never even dream of hurting anyone.”

Annabelle’s heart splintered at the words. “I’m still me,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“No, you’re not,” Mauve said firmly. “You’ve changed. You’re cold, hardened. You carry a gun, Annabelle. You know how to use it, don’t you?”

Annabelle opened her mouth to reply, but Mauve cut her off. “Did he teach you?” she asked, her tone accusatory. “That man and his men…are they the ones who taught you to shoot? Are they the ones who turned you into this? What did you pay them with?”

“What?”

“You’ve sold yourself, haven’t you?” Mauve continued, her voice rising slightly. “That’s why he’s done all this for us. That’s why his men are outside, watching over this house. You’ve given yourself to him, haven’t you?”

The sting of the accusation was sharper than Annabelle had anticipated.

She took a step back, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Mom, no. That’s not…”

“I didn’t want to believe it,” Mauve said, her voice dropping to a low, pained murmur. “I didn’t want to believe him when he told me you’d gone wayward, but... look at you.”

Annabelle’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing.

The anger that rose in her chest was sudden and white-hot.

She didn’t need to ask who “he” was, there was only one person her mother would believe so blindly like that.

“Who told you that?” Annabelle asked, her voice cold and restrained.

Mauve blinked at the shift in her tone.

Her fear returned as she unconsciously backed her wheelchair further away. “Annabelle, don’t...”

“Who told you that?” Annabelle demanded again.

Her voice was low but sharp and laced with a quiet fury that rivalled Dante’s.

Mauve flinched, “Annabelle, you…”

Ignoring her mother’s protests, Annabelle moved quickly out of the room.

She stepped behind the wheelchair and gripped its handles.

With a strength that surprised even her, she wheeled Mauve back into the room and shut the door firmly behind them.

The click of the lock echoed in the tense silence.

“Annabelle!” Mauve cried, twisting in her seat. “Have you gone mad?”

Annabelle let out a humourless laugh, the sound cold and bitter.

She stepped in front of her mother, her arms crossed over her chest. “You tell me, Mom,” she said, her voice deceptively calm. “Listen to what I’ve been through from the person who told you I have sold myself. Then you tell me if I’ve gone crazy or not.”

“Annabelle…”

“No,” Annabelle cut her off, her voice hard. “You’re going to listen. Or would you rather tell me who told you your daughter sold her body to men, first?”

Mauve’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Her hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair tightly, her knuckles white. “I…”

Mauve stopped talking, and the silence was deafening as Annabelle waited her out.

Mauve’s breath hitched as her eyes darted away. Annabelle straightened, her expression unyielding. “Fine,” she said, stepping back. “I’ll start, then.”

“You want to know what happened to me, Mom? What made me like this?”