Translucent

Chapter 15: Nightmare

Content Warning: This chapter contains information about suicide/self-harm that some readers may find disturbing or traumatizing. Reader's discretion is advised.

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The picture seemed not very clear. I was in my room, except everything looked foreign. These pieces of furniture were not mine. They looked more dated and of brownish and wood–the desk, the shelves, and no sights of modern devices. Safe to say they were antiques.

Possibly...

"How come you've never listened to me?" an angry roar of a man broke the silence. His voice sounded loud and clear from outside the room.

"It's your fault, Papa." another voice shouted, younger yet familiar. "Bridget fled because of you. You've ruined this family."

"Bridget might have left the house as she wished. She made her own decision. But you stay, laddie." the older voice growled under his breath.

"No one's going to stop me, including you. I'm leaving for Cambridge."

"How dare you speak to me like that!" the older man's voice rose. "Do you know who you're speaking to?"

"I know. I'm speaking to a monster." the younger voice hissed.

I was about to get to the door and stuck my ear so I could hear clearer, but my legs couldn't move. Then hasty footsteps were heard thumping across the floorboard outside then the conversation just behind the door continued.

"Stop it, Thomas!" A woman's shriek followed. "You're hurting him."

The man snarled and a loud slap echoed in the corridor behind the door.

"Ma, are you alright?" the young man softened this time.

"Please don't go, Cornelius." the woman wept.

"I have to, mother. We have to. We have to go away from this place. Away from him."

"You..." the man snarled coldly under his breath. "...are not going anywhere."

My ear caught hefty steps bolted away, leaving nothing but the silent sobs and murmurs of the woman and the young man, as well as the old clock's heavy ticks.

A heavy tapping sound rumbled, like a pair of boots stomping the ground and charged angrily towards the door. A young man stormed into the room and slammed the door behind him. His breaths were short and rugged. Then his familiar features hit me. His different appearance stunned me.

He was the same Cornelius Haywood I met everyday, except he was wearing a black waist-coat covering a white suit underneath, black trousers with invisible boots. He looked formal yet very handsome in that outfit. Yet his dark hair was neatly swept, not as messy as his appearance as a ghost everyday. His skin tone was warm pale, not pasty white like he was today. There was something about his expression that made me shudder. Brows furrowed, eyes darting sharp look, and thin lips formed a tight line.

"Cornelius?" I spontaneously–panic–asked. "What's going on?"

Something was terribly wrong.

But he shot a relentless look and headed straight for the shelves by the window–the window on which I once almost slipped and fell many years later. Cornelius only brushed me aside me, like I wasn't there at all.

"Cornelius!" I called.

Still, no reaction.

Cornelius carelessly dug through the books on the shelves. He shoved things out of his way. Some books, frames, steel boxes spilled to the floor, before he stopped. His hand pulled out a bottle of whiskey from the far end of the shelf. He forced open the lid and took a big gulp of it, finishing the entire bottle. For a while, he swayed around, muttering a few cusses, and appearing very, very distraught to one point he stumbled to the window seat. He threw things to the floor, kicking objects in the room, and launching the empty glass to the floor. I stood there, feeling numb and terribly scared of how destructive he'd become.