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reprimos · 2 months ago

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this is pretty much just a word vomit oneshot of the glass scene with camilla but from my interp of milly’s perspective <3 yeah. xoxo.

tw: blood, injuries. this one is very very light in comparison to my new works coming soon.

a/n: this is from over a year ago so my writing isn’t the best, but i still love this work .. so here ^^. originally posted on ig.

⠀ “Camilla, are you dead?” Hurried footsteps across the grass, hushed cries – was it really so bad?

⠀ The voice was so familiar, so close she swore she could almost touch it – but, as panic-stricken as it was, it was muffled, underwater. Or perhaps she was under water. She could see colors, the gold of the sunlight against her eyelids – and she had no doubt that, should she open her hollow eyes, they’d be filled with blues and greens and whites, an uncanny portrait of picturesque beauty; the scenario of saturday sitcom, birds chirping and laughter ringing.

⠀ … She would rather keep them shut.

⠀ It made it easier to bear that way. In the faux darkness, she could conjure a different pallet that distracted her enough to remember how to breathe. Easier, not because the pain bit so deep that she wanted to cry like a lost child, and certainly not because she was dizzy from the blood loss ( though she was certainly disappointed to realize her favorite dress had been stained crimson ) – but most of all, because that wound was a key, unlocking something he’d shoved deep within her marble heart.

⠀ No one knew about the scar that slashed jagged across the sole of her foot. She’d always worn slippers, socks, shoes, something the others chalked up to her “ladylike tendencies”, her “girlish needs” ( particularly Bunny, privy as he was to pointing out every flawed, feminine side of her ). The only one who’d seen the wound was her grandmother; the dear, old crone.

⠀ Camilla had always been addicted to adrenaline, always ached to get on her feet and move. Everyone was familiar with this; they’d all seen how her leg bounced in classes, how a book was a mere prop in her itching hands, only blankly thumbed through its pages until someone suggested they go out to dinner. This was no different as a child. No taller than four-foot-ten, she’d tug on her grandmother’s arms, begging them to let her play in the fields with the wild rabbits and rushing creeks. The lady would often scold her, turning her around and sending her to put on a dress, rather than the deep blue overalls she had found in Charles’s room. A huff of annoyance and she was off, trudging up the stairs and slinking into her room, dejected and still ever so bored. She stayed there, silent and bitter, waiting for the sun to set and the day to end. It was a waste of time. She could have been doing something better, something that would be useful to a growing child’s mind ( she supposed that her free time was meant to be spent however she so desired, after all ). “Rest is important,” adults would say; learning when to take a step back and recover, learning how to just sit and drink some tea, have a warm cookie. But Camilla questioned the validity of such statements, given she had yet to experience a want or need to “take it slow”. It seemed more like a tale told to ease the mind, reduce the stress of “growing up”.

⠀ So when the sun fell askew, stars glittering on a void of ink, Camilla sat up in bed. She had since then changed into a soft nightgown made for little girls, the sleeves long and thick with white cotton. The fabric touched the edges of her toes as she shuffled to a stand, blinking blearily until her eyes adjusted to the dark. The blonde could hear the faint sound of snores down the hall, leaking from her grandparents room. No doubt everyone was dead asleep – it was half past two, and none of them were up later than eleven.

⠀ But Camilla couldn’t just go back to sleep, could she? She hadn’t completed her “one exciting thing a day” ( a silly little rule she had come up with after a summer she’d spent doing nothing but idly waiting around the house – perhaps the worst three months of her life ). Her little hands blindly grasped at the dark mass of her night-table, until they latched on to the candlestick her grandfather had gifted her. It would have been far better to find a flashlight, but the only one in the dusty old home was hidden above the refrigerator. So instead she fumbled with the small matchbox, the flame bright as it spread to the wick and she was off. Shielding the candle with her hand from the biting wind, she stepped out onto the wet grass, relishing the breeze, the scent of fresh rain. She waded through overgrown plants to the little horses stable downwind of the field, watching as the snow-white skirts were stained at the hem.

⠀ She’d always been fond of the horses; particularly her grandma’s older one, Otus, a large black steed. The girl had never seen her grandmother ride it, her old age and deteriorating body a cage ( Camilla vowed to never grow old ). But she had seen the photos, the sleek look of the creature, the ecstasy on the woman’s smiling face. Oftentimes she’d pout, begging her grandma to let her play with the horses.

⠀ And always, she’d reply “no, Camilla. It’s much too dangerous for a girl like you.”

⠀ Now, looking face-to-face up at the horse, it seemed much bigger in person. Not even the stool would get the child up on its back safely. But no matter; she was a clever girl, and within seconds, she had turned the stool on its side and propped it up against the thick metal fence. Wobbling, she toed the pole, balancing on it like it was a gymnast’s beam. The horse, old and patient, only watched her with disinterest as she made her way towards it. Meekly, she offered the horse a “hello”, almost expecting it to speak back like a fairytale.

⠀ Stupid, stupid child.

⠀ And perhaps even more stupid as she reached out to its mane, slowly gripping as she hoisted herself from the fence and onto the animal. She’d never seen anyone actually ride the horses – how was she supposed to know what to do? ⠀

Otus’s grunt of protest rang and Camilla yelped, only barely seated on its hide. Her fingers wound themselves further into the horse’s hair, agitating the poor animal – he cantered for a moment, hooves clopping into the mud, before he heaved –

⠀ And bucked Camilla right off into the metal gate.

⠀ Unlike the fences, the gate was not made with thick, rounded poles – no, it was crafted masterfully with thin bars of metal, clearly for aesthetic purposes. They curled and twisted like storybook vines, something she used to admire. Of course, now, it was not to her liking. The long, skewer-like bits seemed like the open jaws of a shark as she fell, the sole of her foot and thigh colliding with the points. Pain bit and blood flew, and the ice-cold exterior caused by the day's rushing rain certainly was no help. It stung like nothing she’d ever felt ( which was admittedly a low bar; she was, after all, a bit of a sheltered child ), and she knew she’d be in trouble, but she couldn’t help it. She cried out.

⠀ The sound of her wailing was enough to reach the distant house, waking the residents. From the horizon she could see her grandparents’ bedroom light flick on, the silhouette of a woman hurriedly slipping on a dressing gown and tumbling out the door.

⠀ Admittedly, everything else seemed a blur; by the time her grandmother reached her, hair tangled and wrinkled face tight, the wind had died down and her skin had grown numb from the cold. She could faintly remember the hushed, angry tone riling the lady’s voice, how her foot stung and cried tears of red when she stood, bracing herself in her grandmother’s arm. The trek home was a long, impractical wobble-on-one-foot, and she swore the grass was made of tiny blades of glass.

⠀ Camilla didn’t know how she’d gotten inside the dark house, or how she’d sat herself down on the cushioned seats beside the front door. She didn’t know how her Grandmother cleaned her wounds, or what she’d said to scorn Camilla’s shameful behavior. All she did recall was the gentle flickering of that candlelight. It burned, it pulsed, wax dripping and she remembered thinking it looked as if it was weeping.

By the time she’d been set down, she had opened her eyes, surprised for a moment to find her limbs were those of an adult. It was strange how much the day seemed to resemble the night it all happened. The once-sunny skies were blocked by a sudden swirl of clouds, and the air had grown cool to the touch, goosebumps littering her skin. In a way, the little summer home was not unlike her childhood house, too. She studied the pale walls, the chairs and windows, pretty flowers sagging without the warmth of sunlight.

⠀ But her eyes caught on something different. Amongst the flowerbeds of pinks, reds, blues, just above the windowsill and behind the glass, there it was. Something flickered inside, beyond the glass threshold. Flickered, like it was alive, a little dancing light. A singular, tall candlestick, lit amongst the dimmed rooms.

⠀ The familiar scene was a chain wrapped around her neck, violently closing around her and yanking her back into reality. The colors of a darkened sky, golden hues across the clouds as the sun slowly returned, became nothing more than a small flame’s light reflected against pale walls and blood-stained wood. Some magical artifact, a treasure worthy of her only childhood comfort, became wax in her hands; stripped of its value and glory. And Camilla was just a child again, sat in a lovely prison, completely powerless to life’s whims. Her lovely dream and gentle fantasy had come to an end, replaced by a hardened and dull reality. This was her life now, wasn’t it? She hadn’t escaped, at all. She was only covering up the tracks of her mistakes.

⠀ A flinch, and her brother drew back, hissing like a cat. She blinked, and clouds became clouds once more. her body felt heavy, as though her soul had just returned to it and settled in the pit of her stomach. “Well? Go on.”

⠀ “I can’t do it. I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”

Foolish, foolish Charles. She was already hurt; she had been hurt many times. She was not porcelain, glass ( despite the face she wore – she had to admit that she did encouraged the idea, to an extent ). For a moment she felt pity for her twin as their mirrored eyes met and she saw the sickening worry lurching in his pupils. Poor, foolish Charles.

⠀ So she watched as Henry pushed the blonde to the side, his large build skewing her view for just a moment, the sun blocked out and she relished in the shadow. What was all this worth, if she could not escape?

⠀ And suddenly, it was over as quick as it began. Francis and Henry called her brave for handling the pain without a single tear. How carelessly the word “brave” was thrown about. Camilla had not been “brave”; she’d been nothing but a liar hiding behind walls made of stuffed-toys and her grandmother’s freshly baked cookies.

⠀ “Don’t call me that,” she sighed as her feet hit the ground, slipping from Henry’s grasp as though she did not need the support – a lie, given how she winced as soon as her wound made contact. “If anything, Charles is the brave one for not hurling at the sight of a little blood.” No matter how she teased, though, the edge remained in her voice. She knew he – Charles – felt the same thing she did.

⠀ Remembered the same thing she did.

#the secret history #tsh donna tartt #tsh #donna tartt #charles macaulay #camilla macaulay #henry winters #richard papen #fanfic #bunny corcoran #edmund corcoran #idk what else to tag this #i <3 camilla macaulay

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