Thank you all so much for sticking with me so far! After the last chapter, I got a lot of questions, so I wanted to clarify something: Swept Under Silence was always meant to have a touch of magical realism. Some things are strange, even fantastical, but within the world of the story, they make sense. A few of you have already picked up on my ideas and inspirations for both Marcus and Rose (which makes me very happy!), but that doesn't mean every rule has been laid out just yet.
I hope you'll keep reading to see everything unfold--and if you're enjoying the story, your continued support and comments truly help me keep going.
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Belisario had taken fear out of him long ago. The visceral gut reaction was still very much there, but the voice that made stupid decisions based on pure instinct was subdued. It told him to run. What Marcus chose to do was brace himself and hold his ground.
The girl-turned-monster heaved with ragged, gasping breaths, tremors rocking her from core to feet.
Rose snarled as she came for him. Her nails and fists rained upon him with fury and vengeance. She wasn't as puny as a schoolgirl. Her hands were hardened, strong, and she was not deterred by thought or self-preservation. He felt a nail break against his skin. He felt sharp lines being drawn on his flesh.
The faster he tried to hold her, the faster she seemed to move.
She would tire eventually. She had to. She had to.
A hand reached his face. He put his arms up to protect himself. Rose bit down on the left one. Her jaw locked with rage to keep her teeth deep in flesh, and blood flowed into her mouth.
The taste of him was the taste of victory--she had hurt him. Yet it was also the taste of defeat. It took hold of her senses. With their distance closed, Marcus seized her.
"Come back to me, Rose."
His voice serpentined through the screams in her mind and lassoed her conscience. She was yanked back to the forefront of those vicious thoughts, able to take hold of the bridle once more. The idea of herself existed again.
Then a hand rested against her chest, pushing down over her hammering heart. Not striking, not restraining, but resting there to ground her. She managed to spit the gore. It dropped onto her apron in stains of deep red.
Rose pushed away, but his grip came to her arms, and he hugged her close against his warm chest with a tender, desperate need to keep her close. His breath was hot against the crown of her head. There was no cruelty in the way he held her.
"It's over," he murmured, his voice like a lighthouse in the dark sea. "You are back."
Rose shook her head violently. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm..." Her voice was a broken whisper as the words spilled out between laboured breaths. "I didn't mean to... I'm so sorry." She forgot, for a second, where she was and why. So familiar shame took her and ran loose through her mind.
Sobs wracked her thin frame. The sound was so mewling without the echo of the walls.
"Rose, I have to put out the candles you knocked. Be still for me until I get back."
She agreed. Hugging her arms, she crouched to the floor. In no time, Mr. Carvalho was back, and his body fit against hers, nurturing her in the curve of his neck.
Rose didn't resist. She let herself fold into him, let herself be held. Her body still trembled, the remnants of that terrible force thrumming beneath her skin, but the storm had passed, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
She licked the blood on her lips, thick and metallic. His blood.
Marcus held her without speaking, his grip firm but not forceful, for once. His hand smoothed over the nape of her neck.
Rose squeezed her eyes shut. Shame was a burning ache inside.
"I--I didn't want to..." Her breath hitched. "I never wanted to be like this."
"Like what?"
"Like this," she repeated, voice cracking. "Like someone who loses herself. Who lashes out. Who hurts."
His fingers traced the trembling line of her spine.
"That wasn't the first time," he murmured. "I want you to tell me how this came to be."
Rose flinched but didn't deny it.
And to her surprise, Mr. Carvalho kissed her bloody lips and rubbed his nose against hers.
"Tell me, Rose. Tell me."
"The day my mother died, I... I just lost it." Her breath hitched as the words forced their way out. "We were alone in the world, just me and her. She was my everything. My entire life was contained inside our cottage. It was small," she continued, her breath shaky, "but it was enough. The fire always burned in winter, the windows stayed open in summer. We had a little garden out back. Chickens, too. Not many, just enough for eggs. We didn't need much. She taught me how to cook, how to stitch, how to read from the many books we had." A ghost of a smile flickered over her lips, there and gone in an instant. "She used to sing when she worked. I don't remember the words, just the sound of her voice. I thought we'd always be together." Her voice caught. "She made it feel safe."
"Then, one winter, we both got sick. I remember the way our breaths sounded in the cold, like we were breathing through wet cloth. We spent days in bed together, huddled under the blankets, trying to keep warm despite the fever. I was so weak I couldn't even stand up without getting dizzy. She was just as bad. We boiled eggs, and that's all we managed to eat for days. We slept, and slept, and talked, and slept more, trying to fight the worst off. I could feel her hand in mine, cold and clammy, but I held onto it. Not once did I consider we could die from it." Her voice cracked again, and she pressed trembling fingers to her lips, as if trying to force the words back inside. "I don't think she did either," she whispered, her tone breaking on the last syllable.
"One morning, I woke up, and everything was quiet. Too quiet. I turned over to say something to her, but she didn't answer. She was lying there, her eyes half-open, staring at nothing. Her lips were blue. Her cheek felt like ice when I touched it. I shook her, I called her name over and over, but she didn't respond. She was just... gone. And I knew it. I knew it the second I touched her, but I kept shaking her anyway, screaming her name as if I could bring her back."
Rose swallowed, her throat bobbing painfully. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears, just pooling and pooling.
"I don't know how long I stayed there, next to her. Hours? A whole day? I couldn't move. I just kept looking at her, waiting for her to blink, for her chest to rise. But she didn't. And eventually, I... I couldn't look at her anymore. It felt like she was staring at me. I couldn't take it. So I got up and went to the kitchen. I closed the door behind me, like shutting her out would make it less real. And I broke down. I wanted to destroy everything. I wanted the entire world to fall apart like I had. That was the first time. Suddenly, I had a bunch of broken porcelain to clean, and my hands were bleeding. I don't remember much."
"Of course, I didn't feel any better once I regained consciousness. The house just stood there, silent, indifferent. I was all alone in that empty, cold kitchen, and the only sound was my own voice. I don't know how long it went on. It felt like days. I lost track of time. I couldn't think. I couldn't eat. The only thing I could feel was this deep, hollow ache in my chest, like someone had carved out a piece of me and left a bleeding wound behind." Her hands dropped to her lap, clenching into fists so tight her knuckles turned white. "Eventually, I knew I had to do something. I couldn't just leave her there, lying in our bed. I went outside, found a shovel. My hands were shaking so badly, and it took forever to dig a hole her size. But I couldn't stop. I dug and dug until my fingers were raw and blistered. I don't know how long. All I know is that I was out there, in the cold, digging a grave for my mother."
Rose pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to steady herself. Her eyes were fixed on some distant point, as if she were caught up in the whole scene playing out again. Her mother's ghost watched her from the corner.
"When it was finally deep enough, I went back inside. I wrapped her in a blanket because I couldn't stand the thought of the dirt touching her skin. I dragged her outside, through the floor. She was so heavy! Like she wasn't even a person anymore, just rocks in a sack. Then I put her in and shovelled dirt over her. It felt like I was suffocating her all over again. When I was done, I found some stones to put around the grave, just so she wouldn't be forgotten. It was all I could do. No prayer, no mass, no priest. Just me and..."
The room was thick with silence, the kind that felt like it could crush her under its weight. Marcus didn't speak, didn't move. He just watched her.
"And then it was just me," she continued, her voice a broken whisper. "The house felt so big and empty without her. I kept expecting to hear her voice, to see her sitting by the fire. But she wasn't there. She was ten steps away, under the ground. It was just me and the silence. Weeks went by. Maybe months. I don't know. I lost track of time. I picked vegetables from the garden, collected eggs from the chickens. I chopped wood to keep the fire going. I don't remember much from that time. Only that sometimes, I was taken by that rage. I broke things. Hurt the chickens. I woke up far away from the house, in torn clothes and barefoot. I screamed until my throat ached. I wasn't really there," she repeated, her eyes raw and red-rimmed.
"But then, one day... the landlord's footman came to check on the house. I heard the door creak open. I remember the sound of their heavy boots on the wooden floor, the way it made my heart pound in my chest. I was terrified. I didn't know who they were, what they wanted."
"He left and called for others. So many of them. I heard the front door open wide, the rush of cold air flooding in. I tried to stay as still as I could under that bed. I lay there, curled up, pressing my hands over my mouth to keep from making a sound. I could see their feet moving around the room, searching. My body was trembling so hard I thought they'd hear the bed frame shaking."
She squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed by the images in her head. "One of them bent down, looked right at me, but he didn't reach for me. He just stood up slowly and walked away. I thought maybe I'd imagined it, that he hadn't really seen me. But then he left, and I heard him calling for others. They dragged me out by the ankles. I know I fell into rage again because I don't remember anything until I was outside, being held down like a rabid dog."
Tears streamed down her cheeks now, but she didn't wipe them away. She looked at Marcus with a wild, haunted expression. "They unburied her," she spat, her voice rising, filled with a fury that seemed to crack open the numbness she had wrapped herself in. That fury. That was when the monster was born. "They dug her up. They moved her. I remember seeing them shoveling away the dirt I'd so carefully piled up, the stones I'd placed. They pried her out of the ground. They laid her corpse out! They accused me!" she cried. "They looked at me like I was a murderer. Like I'd done something to her. As if I'd ever hurt her! As if I'd ever do anything to my mom!"
"They saw a dirty, wild girl in a house with a grave out back, and that was all they needed to know. They didn't care about the truth. They just wanted someone to blame. And I was there. Alone, covered in dirt, screaming like an animal. I was the easy answer. They kept yelling at me. I would've torn them apart if I could. But they were stronger."
