Ascent

First posted August 2019.

CW: child abuse.

As a child, Tara thought she understood more of the world than the adults around her. Some things were so plainly obvious to her that, when she realised adults did not understand or believe them, she could not think of how to begin to explain. Whatever foundation of truth they had forgotten or never known was so intrinsic to the nature of things, it felt impossible that they could be experiencing life in the same world as her yet be so ignorant of something which she found so plain. Whenever she did try to explain, adults always ignored her, dismissing her as a fanciful, imaginative child. As she grew, she would begin to feel sorry for them, but at the time, all she saw was red.

Upon meeting her new step-father, one thing was crystal clear to Tara and, unfortunately, no-one else: he was misaligned. Before he said one word to her, she knew he was out-of-step with the essence of the world, and the implicit understanding of what is right and what is wrong.

“You just miss your father,” sighed her mother. “You’re just afraid of change.”

But Tara knew, as all children know better than adults, the difference between change and descent.

In later years, Tara would not remember the name of the town to which she was moved. She could not remember the date they moved, nor the year. It was a house with hatred and fear in its walls in a place removed from the light. Were she less understanding of the world, she might have considered it merely a bad dream, or a bogeyman of her adolescence given presence by hindsight.

She opened the door and was met with a wall of darkness. Her eyes adjusted and the inside of the house began to take shape, though the light was still very dim. She took a step forward. The echo of her heel on the marble floor seemed to bounce off endless unseen walls. Slowly, she moved further ahead, feeling the dark creep in to fully envelop her as the light behind her faded away. The reflections of the small candles in the hallway flickered shapelessly in the polished dark cherry wood of the enormous staircase. She shivered in the still, cold air. The house was much more magnificent than anything she’d encountered before, much less lived in, but it was far from welcoming or homely.

“Your room is upstairs,” her mother said, walking briskly past her without a hint of discomfort or unease.

Tara reached for the banister on the staircase, but did not take a step. The candlelight briefly caught something further back in the house and the reflecting beam flashed in the corner of her eye. She stared into the dark, and though she could not see it, she felt something stare back.

“Tara,” her mother called from the top of the stairs.

Breaking her gaze, she followed up the staircase and entered her room. Like the rest of the house, it was dark, but not bare. A bed, wardrobe, dressing table, and mirror all in the same dark cherry wood of the staircase were placed around the room. The furniture seemed the sort that was for show: too elegant for actual use. Two slender candles illuminated the dark burgundy of the walls, and light from outside was visible beneath the heavy matching curtains. She walked across the room, immediately pulling the curtains back. She and her mother squinted at the sudden brightness.

“I’ll have your things sent up,” said her mother.

Tara turned but her mother had already left the room. She felt a stab of longing, not for her mother but for a life of which her mother was a part. They seemed to inhabit parallel but different worlds, like seeing each other through a pane of glass through which there was no passage or crack.

She left her room to explore the rest of the house. Nearly all of the rooms upstairs were identical to hers: the same dark colours, the same furniture--though one room lacked a bed, another a mirror. She turned her face away as she deliberately passed by her step-father’s and mother’s rooms without a passing glance inside.

Her eyes gradually adjusted to the perpetual dimness inside the house. As she descended the stairs, she saw a small parlour with open bifold doors and its windows to the outside covered with heavy curtains. The walls were bare, but one hardly noticed the walls behind the side tables covered in crystal sparkling beneath a layer of dust and slightly tarnished silver. A colourful Persian rug covered the wooden floor, and at one end of the room sat a large glass case containing porcelain figures in ballroom attire, frozen mid-waltz.

She continued through the parlour’s side door and into the long, scarlet-walled dining room, a series of three nearly identical sitting rooms, and on to a larger parlour that opened to the entrance hall. In the back of the large parlour, she saw a doorway still too dark for her to see properly. Peering inside, all she could discern were amorphous black shadows of furniture and objects around the room. On the wall, a large oval shadow glinted dimly on its edges.

Tara turned around and saw a candlestick on the parlour’s mantelpiece. She picked it up and stepped into the dark room, squinting at the shape on the wall. Inside the ornate gold frame was a portrait of an unsmiling woman. The background behind her was dark, as were her hair and her clothes, making her pale skin stand out all the more. The effect was such that it seemed the woman was not only inhabiting the abyss behind her, but embodying it. Her large eyes were also dark, swallowing whatever light might have been around her and reflecting nothing back. The longer Tara looked at the painting, the more the wide brush strokes seemed to move. The mouth twitched, as if the lips pressed together in an attempt to hold something back. She held the candle closer to the portrait.

A sharp scream startled her into dropping the candle, its flame extinguishing as it fell. She winced as the heavy candlestick hit her toe.

“Tara, what on earth are you doing?” her mother scolded as she stormed into the room. “You’ll set it on fire. And this doesn’t belong here,” she said, stooping to pick the candlestick up off the floor.

“Who is that?” she asked as her mother grabbed her wrist and led her out of the room.

“Some relative of your step-father’s. Aunt or cousin or...I don’t know,” she replied distractedly. “Go unpack your things.”

It was almost peaceful, being upstairs alone in her room with her curtains flung wide to let in as much light as possible, unfolding and refolding all her belongings methodically and putting them away just so. Almost, however, was all; she could not shake the buzzing unease in her chest that had lingered since setting eyes on the portrait.

The muffled sound of the front door creaking open and slamming shut made her flinch. The force rattled her window panes. Her breath quavered as she pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, willing herself to calm down.

She heard her mother’s voice with more clarity as she ascended the stairs. “-to tell Tara to come to dinner.”

“Don’t bother. Leave her up there,” her step-father replied.

There was a knock at her door.

“I’m coming,” Tara said, her voice cracking unexpectedly. She cleared her throat and repeated, “I’m coming.”

She entered the dining room to find her mother seated at one end of the long table and her step-father at the other. Chairs lined each side of the table all the way down. She chose one in the centre, and her plate was placed in front of her by a butler she hadn’t seen before.

“Nice of you to join us,” her step-father scowled, chewing loudly with his mouth open.

Tara remained silent, poking her food with her fork and refusing to lift her eyes from the plate. Her ears grew hot as the dining room filled with the sound of her step-father’s chewing. She delicately cut a small piece of sausage and took a bite.

“How are you finding your room, Tara?” her mother asked.

Tara swallowed before quietly responding. “It’s fine.”

Her step-father snorted. “Ungrateful. Horrible child.”

She looked up at her mother. “May I be excused?”

“Rude, leaving without eating,” her step-father muttered, stuffing more food into the mash already in his mouth without swallowing.

“You should eat more,” her mother cajoled.

Tara pretended not to see the slimy smug grin on her step-father’s face as she continued to eat.

The next morning, as she descended the stairs, she felt air against her ears, hot like breath. She looked up and saw the dark portrait hanging on the small parlour’s wall, facing the stairwell, as if lying in wait for her.

She felt a weight on her chest as she ran into the dining room. Her mother was eating breakfast--mercifully, alone.

“Good morning, dear,” she said without looking up from her newspaper.

“Who moved the portrait?”

“What portrait?” her mother looked up with a quizzical expression.

“The one I found yesterday, in the back room.”

Her mother shrugged and returned her attention to her breakfast. “Perhaps it was the butler.”

The door on the other side of the dining room opened, and Tara left without waiting to see if it was the butler or her step-father. She hesitated in the entrance hall, considering whether to check that the portrait was still in the small parlour or the back room. It didn’t seem to make much of a difference either way, except that the back room still had no source of light; even in full daylight, no sun reached the back room. She didn’t much care for the idea of going into the dark room with only a candlestick again, so she went back to the small parlour.

It was a choice she quickly regretted. Her step-father stood in front of the portrait, gazing fondly at it. He turned to look down at Tara and his face quickly morphed into a sour expression.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped.

Her throat went suddenly dry, and she couldn’t respond.

“This is my house,” he said, quickly closing the distance between them and slapping her in the face. “You can’t just wander around like you own the place.”

Her fingers flew to her face, touching the stinging palm-print gingerly.

“Mine,” his voice rose as he fixed her with a fiery glare. “Not yours.”

She winced, shrinking into herself as he towered over her. She turned around to leave the room and had taken no more than three steps when the sound of shattering crystal froze her in fear once more. She looked down at the glittering shards, then back at her step-father, his face contorted with rage.

“NOT YOURS,” he roared, launching himself across the room in her direction.

At once Tara scrambled up the stairs. His pounding footsteps behind her echoed the frenzied beating of her heart. She fled into her room, just managing to lock the door behind her before he beat her door with his fists, howling wordless furious screams. Weeping quietly, she curled herself into a circle on the floor of the dark room.

She awoke some time later; the curtains were still closed, and she could not tell how much time had passed. The rug had left an uncomfortable mark on her face--or perhaps it was the lingering pain from the slap. She rose and peeked through the window. The sun was beginning to set over the bare trees. It looked as though it were descending into a thick, tangled cage of branches.

She tip-toed down the stairs and heard movement in the dining room. She walked in, not daring to raise her head, and took her seat.

“And what,” her step-father said, his voice clogged with half-chewed mush, “precisely, do you think you’re doing?”

Tara looked first to her mother’s end of the table, but her seat was empty. She slowly turned to face her step-father. It would, in other circumstances, have been a comical sight: his dull, beady eyes fixed on her while he loudly chewed open-mouthed. But she knew, and had always known, of what he was capable, and whether for worse or for better, she could not forget it.

“You think you’re going to sit in my house and eat my food after what you’ve done?”

She frowned. “What I’ve-?”

He rose from his seat, flexing his fingers. “If you’re going to break my things, I’m going to break yours.”

At the last word he ran toward her, arms outstretched toward her neck. She ducked beneath his reach and ran out the door behind his seat. Stopping to open each sitting room door slowed her down, and she sobbed through heavy breaths as she ran through the large parlour. She tripped on a low stool and swallowed a pained shriek as she tried to stand up on a twisted ankle. She looked over her shoulder. He was too close; she wouldn’t make it up the stairs. Noticing the bifold doors of the small parlour were closed, she limped in through the side door and slumped against it as she closed it behind her.

The sound of the front door opening seemed to silence all other sound in the house, down to Tara’s breath.

“Ah, good evening,” she heard her step-father’s voice, dripping with oily pretence. “You’re home early.”

“Yes,” her mother’s voice followed. “I...well, it wasn’t quite for me. Is Tara in her room?”

“You’ll soon adjust,” he said, ignoring her question.

Tara gasped as the key turned in the lock of the door against which she leaned. She reached up and pulled at the handle, but it would not move. She pulled herself to her feet with the help of the table next to her and limped over to the bifold doors. They, too, were locked.

The room was only just illuminated enough for her to see by moonlight shining through a small gap in the curtains. The portrait’s expression remained sombre, but somehow the emotion behind it seemed to have changed. The prickling anger and resentment she felt directed at her from the portrait was replaced by a smug indifference. Secure in the knowledge that all would continue to be as it always had been, the woman in the painting feared no interlopers, no upset to the carefully curated balance of her family’s existence. The intrusion would soon be put in her place, the rabble would cease to be roused, and all would once again quietly submit.

The porcelain figures seemed to look at Tara over their shoulders, scowling or turning up their noses. She was both too frightened to look directly at them, for fear of confirming what she thought she was seeing, and too frightened to look away, for fear of what they might do. She slid to the floor once more, holding the portrait’s gaze as tears ran silently down her face.

Her step-father’s muffled laughter broke her terrified trance. She looked around the room at the shadows that seemed to swirl over objects in the way that adults always told her is a trick of the eye. She exhaled in a short, heavy breath, and closed her eyes.

She kept them closed as long as she could stand. She counted seconds in her head, but lost track after twelve as she watched the swirling shapes behind her closed eyelids. When she opened her eyes, nothing had changed. The portrait was contained in its frame; the figures remained in the case. The crystal pieces, save the empty space which had until that morning held a pristine crystal decanter, stood still in their designated places.

Almost as if it came from somewhere other than her own chest, she heard a laugh bubble up inside her. It was not a joyful laugh, but it invigorated her; it was the laugh of discovering the chink in one’s opponent’s armour, of finding a match to light the candle one has carried for some time through the darkness.

The sound of a key in the door awoke her the next morning. Tara steeled herself for her step-father, almost excited to face him, but it was the butler who opened the door.

“I’m so sorry you were trapped here with that awful painting all night,” he said, apologetically brushing her shoulders.

She smiled as she stood, half-speaking to the butler as she looked up at the portrait. “It’s only a painting. It can’t do anything to me.”

Her heart still bounced slightly in anxious anticipation for the impending confrontation with her step-father. She entered the dining room, but although breakfast was laid on the table, no one was there. She opened the door to the next sitting room and found it cold and empty. The second sitting room was much the same. In the third, she found her step-father’s keyring lying on a small table and picked it up. She looked at each key one by one, mentally matching each key with its door. She peered around the last door and looked into the large parlour. A rummaging sound came from the back room, followed by her step-father muttering indistinctly.

Holding her breath and the small key she suspected to be the one for the back room’s door, she stepped carefully across the parlour. She made no noise until the floor creaked beneath her last step, which put her within reach of the door. Her step-father raised his head, cast in shadow.

She slammed the door and turned the key. There was a sound that she hoped was the tumble of the lock falling into place, but there was no time to try another. Her step-father’s roaring screams quickly grew closer and she stepped back from the door. He pounded and rattled the door, but to no avail. The lock held fast.

This time, her laugh was a joyous one. She pulled his books off the bookshelves and ripped pages from leaflets before stuffing them in the fireplace. She smashed the crystal and porcelain figures. She ripped down dark, forbidding curtains and hummed with happiness as the sunlight touched her face.

Broken pieces of beautiful, useless objects crunched satisfyingly beneath her feet as she walked up to the portrait. She climbed up on the dusty table beneath it, took it down from its lofty perch where it had disdainfully watched her creep timidly around the house, and replaced it in direct line of sight with the window, now bare of curtains and with a full view of the long road to the world beyond its gate.

Tara went up the stairs, two at a time, and packed her bags, throwing the once carefully folded clothes into her suitcases with abandon. With one in each hand, she walked with her head held high looking steadfastly forward down the road, and closed the gate behind her.