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Edilivre - Ophélia Callens

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Each night the same ritual happened - a drunk mother, a cheerful sister and a desperate father. Among this familial disaster, Emily convinced herself that nothing nor nobody could cure her angst. Until she crossed his path. Chace, 22 years old, passionate by art. He had a disarming attitude, really disturbing - though appealing. Relying on him, Emily's willing to undertake everything to discover the reasons beneath her mother's illness. Between violence, love and betrayals, Emily would have to fight for the truth. But would it really be worth it? As Laura revealed her darkest secrets, Emily lost herself in the woman's corrupted soul, betrayed by her loved ones and killed by lies.

Sujets

Policier & Thriller

Thriller

Love

Love (disambiguation)

Littérature

Fiction

Romans de genre

Nouvelles de genre

Thriller psychologique

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Publié par	Edilivre
Date de parution	28 juillet 2015
Nombre de lectures	3
EAN13	9782332973337
Langue	Français

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0052€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Cet ouvrage a été composér Edilivre
175, boulevard Anatole France – 93200 Saint-Denis
Tél. : 01 41 62 14 40 – Fax : 01 41 62 14 50
Mail : client@edilivre.com
www.edilivre.com

Tous droits de reproduction, d'adaptation et de traduction,
intégrale ou partielle réservés pour tous pays.

ISBN numérique : 978-2-332-97331-3

© Edilivre, 2015
Prologue
December 2006
Tick-Tock. Tick-Tock. This frustrating noise echoed in my ears as I lay on a chair, my eyes fixed on the table as the therapist tried in vain to make me talk. But I had nothing to say. His unfounded analysis almost offended me. All I wanted was to be done with this. I could feel the pain invading my right side that had been hurt during the accident.
“Why don’t you trust me?”
“I never fully trusted doctors and therapists. Don’t take it personally.” I said, not really paying attention to him.
“Why? Did you have a bad experience with one of them?” he asked, cocking his head to the side as he tried to get hold of my gaze.
“Kind of. It’s complicated.”
“I have time. Go on.”
2 Years Earlier
“I want you to focus on your feelings and to write them down in this diary. It can be a word, a quote, a picture. Just free yourself. This diary is your soul, don’t be afraid to talk with it. It won’t betray you.” Said the school therapist. I had decided to see him because I wanted some kind of escape, someone to count on, someone I could tell everything to without being afraid of the consequences. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out the way I expected it to. This old guy seemed convinced that writing therapy was the best for me. I honestly thought that holding a diary would be useless. Writing wouldn’t help my mom for it wouldn’t help me either. It would just make the whole thing more real, it would be a proof that things were rough but it wouldn’t give me the key to make it stop.
However I surprised myself opening the notebook one night. I felt so hopeless, all I could hear was my dad trying to make my mom sleep as usual but she kept saying the same words: “I’m sorry, it’s her fault, I’m sorry”. I knew she was talking about me even though I still didn’t know what she was blaming me for. I was fully awake and aware of the tension that was surrounding the house. So almost unconsciously, I grabbed a pen and started to write.
“January 15 th 2003
I’ve become friendly related to insomnia. It keeps me company when chaos freezes the outside world, dipping it in an hivernal state – cooling the hearts and leaving a thick white layer behind, probably its soul. I wasn’t sure. Is chao’s soul made of mankind insanities? Is it pushing us to be emotionally sensitive? Or are we making it alive? As a shadow who would follow us permanently, waiting for the right moment to make us sink into our inner Hell? It became a revelation to me that people felt needy to externalize their feelings. We constantly try to explain our way of thinking, our own reaction to daily life. By putting it into words we make it stronger, we make it real. But to fight something, don’t we need it to be real? We can’t win a battle if we’re fighting some invisible form. Through those words I hope that I’m making a step into that battle.”
I surprised myself to feel quite relieved. Was it because writing had dictracted me? Or because I felt stronger than those words? Eager to find out the answer, I wrote over and over.
“January 18 th 2003
Today the pain seems to be gone, along with fear and shapelessness. Things are taking back their meanings, memories flood through my mind as waves crashing against the shore. I cannot longer cope with this terrifying blur. I wasn’t made for darkness – though the voices retaliate, liar, liar. I’m trying to put the pieces back together – in vain. The truth keeps slipping off of my fingers and floats through the wind’s soul – invisible and unreachable, until I make it alive.”
“January 22 nd 2003
Sometimes the world seems to be moving on, people go forward with their lives. They smile and laugh, hold hands and share. But my inner world is crashing down, turning into ashes. And at some point I feel flat. Everything drowned, I can’t ruin anything else to ease the ache. The pain is overwhelming yet fixed and still. It’s so huge that it can’t grow further but it can’t get smaller either. It’s not about choices anymore, it’s about surviving. When you already hurt yourself badly you have to find other ways to get your sorrow and anger out. You can’t cry anymore, the sobs remain stuck in your throat. So I sleep, in hope that I’ll wake up feeling better. Deep inside me I know it’s a lie. I know I’ll feel just as bad. Though I have to live with this scare thought and to carry the weight of self-conciousness as a burden, a part of myself that I wish could disappear – if it feels like I’m being handcuffed, why can’t I find the key to emotional freedom?”
“January 25 th 2003
Wake up with a slap – horror – mom is drunk again. A glance toward the clock – 11pm. She’s gone out one more time. She’s mumbling words that I don’t understand. Her gesture is frightening. I try to calm her but it only makes her more aggressive. She hits – once, twice, her fist turns blue. There’s a mark on the wall. I thank God that it wasn’t my face. Dad rushes in and manages to take her out. Her gaze is challenging me. I don’t look down this time. I’m not scared anymore – anger radiates over my body – I want to hit. I want to scream but I stay still. I watch. I blink. I let myself drift into sleep.”
“February 2 nd 2003
Coldness. Bitterness. I’m flowing deep down the ocean, a ball hooked to my feet, it send me under, I’m out of breath, trying to fight the pressure of water, my eyes fixed above me, it’s so dark down here, sunlight disappears – it’s too deep. I can’t swim away – watching myself drown – it’s a toss-up.”
“February 15 th 2003
I’ve been sitting on a swing – I don’t know for how long. The sorrow seemed buried deeply – has won a few battles – nevertheless recurred tirelesly. Writing is becoming tough.”
Therapist Office
“Your daughter has been really depressed lately. Her diary is an undeniable proof. She seems to have some hallucinations about you and your wife but what scares me the most is her description of her feelings. She’s in deep pain Mr. Matthews. We need to do something. I think sending her to a treatment center would be the best option.”
December 2005
“He betrayed me.” I whispered in a cracked voice. I came for help and all he did was blaming me for the situation. That’s when I decided to stay mute. I didn’t see the point of telling anyone. I was convinced that everybody would react this way so I bottled everything inside. Thought it was for the best. I added, laughing cynically.
“Therapists are all different. I personally think that he was more worried about your mental health than about the truth. He first thought of your safety. A treatment center would have been a safe place for you. Maybe he thought it was the only way to protect you due to the lack of proofs against your mother.”
“I didn’t want to blame my mom. I didn’t want to be stared at as some creepy girl who spread lies to seek attention. I wanted someone to make me feel better. I wanted someone to tell me that everything would be okay and that it wasn’t too late. I needed someone to listen. That’s all I ever asked for.” I yelled, pacing around the room as tears started to blur my vision.
“What do you want today?” he asked, implying that he already knew the answer I would give him.
“I want to forget. I want to move on.” I admitted as I looked down at him.
“Would you want to hear what I think would help you?” He asked again, almost in fear that I would reject the idea. I sat in front of him and nodded. I had nothing to lose at this point.
“I think you should tell me your story.”
“How would it help?” I replied bitterly.
“You said your previous therapist wasn’t able to listen. I want to hear what you have to say. I’m convinced that you’ll feel relieved afterwards. I won’t judge, I won’t make any statement about the events. I’ll just listen.”
I forced my eyes away, contemplating the idea.
“I’d say that everything began when I was about thirteen. It was fours years ago.”
Chapter I
Winter 2001
I had always thought that nothing rough could happen to me. I was living in the perfect town, the ideal neighbourhood, we were the classical family who never gave anyone reasons to be cagey. Our house was typical of the old England Period – covered in brown, there were three floors and each of them had a white window that faced the street – shrubs of all kinds were spread on each side of the stairs which was leading to the front door and some lilies were enthroned on the window sill of the ground floor. I had urged my parents to install them a few years ago. Lily was my favorite flower, it was pure and its white color enlightened the house. I had decorated my room’s balcony with those as well.
We were delighted of our life and unaware of the madness that was slowly integrating our no longer innocent minds – until everything broke down before my eyes. We stopped being a family the night my mother came back home, not able to find her way to her bedroom, too drunk to control her body. She had never drank before that. I was awakened by her whimpers and thought that she might had had a good evening with her old friends. They hadn’t seen each other after they had left college so when she had seen them in town several days earlier she had immediately invited them to hang out. It was the possibility to catch up and to have a good time. My dad, conscious that my mom needed some time by herself, let her go and took care of us for the night. The clock indicated three am. Unable to fall back asleep, I grabbed my cover and wrapped it around my shoulders, freezed by the coldness of november. I found her laying in the stairs, tears running down her cheeks, displaying her mak