Whispers of a Former Life: Episode 7

Ahead of her loomed the ottoman. 

Charity paused mid-step, tilting her head upward to comprehend its massive, square bulk. Its white surface, once soft and inviting, now rose like a sheer cliff face above the carpet, an impossible tower of plush fabric and hidden wooden framework. She remembered how casually she’d pushed it around, flipping open its lid to store away trinkets, magazines, nail polish bottles, small things that belonged to another life, another body. 

The thought was absurd now. 

She couldn’t imagine lifting that lid even if her life depended on it. Just imagining the effort, pushing upward with all her strength, her hands trembling against the giant upholstery, made her feel even smaller. A sharp pang of humiliation stung her throat. The idea was laughable, painfully laughable. 

Reaching the ottoman had already drained her. Her thighs burned, muscles aching as if she’d sprinted a marathon. Her chest heaved with every labored breath. The air around her felt thicker now, heavy and slow, as if the world itself had decided to weigh her down. Sweat traced a cold line down her forehead, stinging her eyes. She wiped it away roughly with the back of her hand, leaving her skin damp and clammy. 

This carpet. 

She’d picked it out herself,  a plush, expensive choice that her friends had envied, meant to be soft beneath bare feet on cozy mornings. She used to adore sinking her toes into its luxurious depths. But now? Each thick fiber tugged at her legs, wrapped around her ankles, and resisted every careful step forward. It was a burden, a tangle of plush vines that slowed her progress and drained her strength. Every step felt like trudging through deep snow, her feet disappearing into the pile with wearying regularity. 

She pressed her back against the base of the ottoman, allowing herself to slide down slowly until she was seated on the carpet. It was rough against her bare arms and legs, and her breathing still came in shallow, uneven bursts. She tilted her head back, her hair catching slightly against the textured fabric behind her. Above, the ottoman stretched skyward, impossibly tall and impassive, a monolith of what once had been comfort. 

Her heart thudded quietly, steadily, each beat a stark reminder of how alone she was. 

She glanced around her room again,this familiar, alien landscape,  trying to gauge how far she’d actually come. The desk chair she’d left behind seemed distant now, shadowed and hazy in the filtered sunlight. The open stretch of carpet she’d crossed looked deceptively short from here, yet it had felt endless in reality. Charity had always taken distances for granted, but now even a handful of feet was a trek fraught with struggle. 

She needed a plan. A clear goal. Survival wasn’t about comfort now , it was about necessity. 

Her mind turned reluctantly toward the hallway, the staircase, and eventually, the front door. Leaving the house, her fortress, her refuge, her gilded prison, was becoming an inevitability she couldn’t avoid. She knew she couldn’t rely on others discovering her absence, not with the current state of her home. 

Before Smallara, before her family had been depleted, the house had always buzzed with activity. Maids, gardeners, cooks, staff were fixtures of daily life. But as her mother and father succumbed, dwindled down to helpless Littles themselves and were whisked away by family members who wanted cash more than they wanted family, Charity had dismissed most of the hired help. What had been necessity now felt excessive, pointless, unaffordable. 

And now that decision haunted her. 

The few remaining staff members only came sporadically, mere shadows in the emptiness. Days could pass before anyone noticed Charity wasn’t simply at school or spending time with friends. And by then? 

She shuddered. 

No, she couldn’t rely on rescue. Not here. 

She had to move again soon, but her muscles begged for a reprieve. She leaned her head back further, closing her eyes for just a moment, savoring the brief illusion of rest beneath the ottoman’s towering shadow. 

In the silence of the room, each creak of the distant house felt like a question, each distant echo a whisper of judgment. 

Charity’s eyes flickered open again, drawn inevitably toward the bedroom door. The gap beneath it was just visible from here—a thin strip of dark promise, terrifying yet irresistible. 

She exhaled sharply, gathering strength from somewhere deep within herself. 

Rest was a luxury she could no longer afford for long. Her next journey was waiting. 

It was time to face it. 

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