Butterflies in Glass Cases

CHAPTER 7: The Next Morning

I wake up suddenly, to find that the sun has already fully risen.

As I sit up, I realize that I'm lying on top of the blankets, still wearing my robe that I had put on in the middle of the night when Macha had knocked on my door, yet when I scan the room, I find no signs of her.

Naturally, I assume that sleep had inevitably found me before her, leading to the onset of juvenile boredom resulting in Macha returning to her own room at some point during the night.

I reach over to habitually check the time on my phone only to remember once more that it has no charge. Not like it matters. It's not like I have any friends looking for me, or parents that are worried if I got here safely.

Getting off the immense bed, I dress myself in a pair of old sweatpants and my hoodie with the thumbholes I've cut into the cuffs (to make sure the sleeves stay down). I yawn while stretching out my back and can't help but notice how well rested I feel.

Somehow, despite the horrific nightmares I was having prior to Macha's late night visit, I feel more rejuvenated from a couple of hours of sleep than I have in years.

Slowly navigating my way downstairs towards the immense kitchen, my nose suddenly fills with the scent of burnt toast combined with some kind of bitter, earthy smell. Before I've even entered the kitchen, I can hear the shuffling of Ms. Pierre as she whips up some kind of mysterious, nauseating cuisine that I'm sure she refers to as 'breakfast'.

The moment I walk through the kitchen door, Ms. Pierre turns towards me with a cold comment on my timing, "Miss Woodall! I was starting to assume that you had fled in the middle of the night."

From anyone else, this might be seen as a mildly humorous comment, but as she sees my clothes, her face shifts to one of disgust, only amplifying the bitterness that was intended with the initial statement.

Ms. Pierre pauses for a moment before saying, "The uniforms in the armoire are not there for decoration, Miss Woodall. They have the intention of being worn."

Despite feeling the impulse to respond as coldly as I've been greeted, I opt to maintain a pleasant tone, "I'm just letting them air out a bit longer. The smell of mothballs is still a bit overpowering."

Clearly frustrated with my insolence, Ms. Pierre turns back towards a large pot on the stove, pursing her lips to contain herself as she continues putting considerable effort into stirring whatever thick mixture it is that she's 'cooking'.

I softly approach, trying to extend an olive branch, "Could I give you a hand with anything?"

She is quick to block my path towards the stove, "This is for the children. There's toast for you on the counter, and coffee in the pot."

Despite how 'off' her defensive body language seems to be, I turn towards the stack of blackened bread that's been drying out on the counter for an unknown amount of time and promptly walk past it, toward the coffee maker and pour myself a cup.

As I blow on the steaming, hot beverage, letting its aroma come back towards my nose, I move towards the breakfast table where Nemain and Macha both sit rigidly silent as they await their morning meal.

I slowly pull out a chair to join them, prompting Nemain to immediately respond by making a production of inching her chair away from me in disgust. Macha, on the other hand, remains still. Her drooping face and sagging shoulders are clear signs of her level of exhaustion resulting from her lack of sleep. I begin to wonder if she even slept at all, the poor thing.

I address both children with a pleasant, and energetic, "So, how is everyone this morning?"

Nemain visibly rolls her eyes at my attempted greeting, whereas Macha barely even acknowledges the existence of consciousness. I curl both hands around my coffee cup, feeling its warmth against my palms as I lean towards Macha with a supportive, "Nightmares can be scary at first, but I promise, they get easier with time."