Chapter 2 — Shadows of the Past
Catherine Moore
The grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked with maddening precision, its pendulum swaying like a metronome counting out her father’s domination. The air inside the Moore Family Home was heavy, almost viscous, weighed down by the silence that always followed one of his outbursts. Catherine sat cross-legged on the threadbare rug of Lucy’s room, knees pulled tightly to her chest. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, hitching slightly every time the faint echo of a slammed door reverberated through the house. The sharp, ghostly scent of lemon furniture polish lingered, as though even the particles of dust were afraid to defy their father’s exacting standards.
Lucy knelt beside her, draping an arm protectively over Catherine’s trembling shoulders. The older girl’s presence was a fragile but defiant shield, standing between them and the echoes of their father’s wrath, which still reverberated from the study downstairs. “It’s going to be okay, Cathy,” Lucy whispered, her voice steady but carrying an undertone of suppressed fear that only Catherine could sense.
Catherine pressed her face to the curve of Lucy’s shoulder, her pulse erratic and her nails digging into her palms. She could still feel the weight of their father’s hand on her wrist, the bruises forming beneath her skin like shadows creeping to the surface. It wasn’t the first time he’d grabbed her, but no matter how often it happened, terror always surged through her like an electric current. Lucy had pulled her away from him during the altercation, her voice slicing through the suffocating air with a rare, sharp defiance.
“You don’t touch her like that!” Lucy’s words cracked through the tension of the room, each syllable coiled with a courage Catherine couldn’t even imagine possessing. She had earned his full fury for that—a swarm of venomous threats and insults that hung heavy in the air, leaving Catherine frozen in a cocktail of awe, fear, and guilt.
Now, in the sanctuary of Lucy’s room, the outside world felt mercifully distant. The room carried a warmth absent from the rest of the house—its defiant imperfection a reflection of Lucy herself. A patched quilt, pieced together by her own hands, spilled over the bed. Stacks of novels, their spines creased and worn like old friends, rested in precarious piles on the floor. A watercolor painting of a meadow hung slightly crooked above her desk, its edges curling faintly. The faint scent of lavender lingered, a calming reprieve from the antiseptic order their father imposed on the rest of the house.
Lucy shifted, reaching into the pocket of her jeans and withdrawing a small object. “Here,” she said softly, holding out a silver locket that gleamed faintly in the dim light. Its surface was engraved with intricate floral patterns, each curve and petal catching the faint light from the desk lamp. “I was going to wait for your birthday, but you need this now.”
Catherine blinked through her tears, hesitant to take it from Lucy’s outstretched hand. “What is it?” she whispered, her voice so faint it barely registered.
“It’s a reminder,” Lucy said, her tone gentler now as she pressed the locket into Catherine’s trembling hands. “Open it.”
The clasp clicked softly as Catherine’s fingers worked it open. Inside was a tiny photograph of the two of them, taken years ago. Catherine’s crooked smile beamed up at the camera, her younger self leaning into Lucy’s protective embrace. On the opposing side of the locket, etched in tiny, precise letters, were the words, *Find your light.*
Catherine traced the inscription with the tip of her finger, the words almost blurring as her vision misted. “What does it mean?” she asked, her voice small.
Lucy’s lips twitched into a faint, wistful smile. “It means that no matter what he does, there’s a part of you he’ll never control. You just have to find it when you need it most.”
The words burrowed deep into Catherine, but her fear clung to her like a second skin. “But you’re not afraid of him,” she whispered, a tremor running through her voice.
Lucy’s smile faltered, and for the first time, Catherine noticed the white-knuckled grip Lucy kept on her own hands, her fingernails digging crescent moons into her skin. “I am,” Lucy admitted, her voice quieter now, though no less firm. “But he doesn’t get to win, Cathy. Not with me, and not with you.”
The confession hung in the room like a fragile thread, raw and honest in a way that made Catherine’s throat tighten. Before she could respond, the sound of their father’s heavy footfalls creaked from the hallway. Catherine’s heart thudded wildly as Lucy quickly tucked the locket beneath Catherine’s sweater and pressed a finger to her lips—a silent command to stay still.
The door creaked open slowly, and their father’s shadow stretched long across the floor, dark and suffocating. He didn’t step inside—he rarely did unless there was punishment to deliver. Instead, his voice sliced through the air, cold and clipped. “Clean yourselves up and be at the table in fifteen minutes. You’d better be in your proper place when dinner starts.”
Lucy’s shoulders straightened, her chin tilting upward ever so slightly, but her voice was careful, neutral. “Yes, sir.”
The shadow lingered for a moment longer, heavy and oppressive, before retreating into the hallway. The door clicked shut, but the tension in the room lingered like the air after a storm. Lucy exhaled first, standing and extending a hand to Catherine. “C’mon,” she said, her tone steadier now, though her eyes betrayed exhaustion. “Let’s get this over with.”
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The memory dissolved like smoke, and Catherine found herself staring out the window of her bedroom in the Moore Estate. The law textbook lay forgotten in her lap, its weight pressing heavily against her legs. She traced the locket’s inscription with the pad of her thumb, the words *Find your light* etched as deeply into her mind as they were into the silver.
She hadn’t seen that light in years—not since Lucy had left home when Catherine was seventeen. Her departure had been the ultimate act of rebellion, a refusal to bend beneath their father’s rules. Catherine had admired her for it, envied her courage to break free. But in the quietest corners of her mind, Catherine also carried resentment—a bitter ache over being left behind to endure their father’s wrath alone. Lucy had promised she’d come back for her, that they’d build a life together—a life where Catherine could finally be free. But that promise, like so much else, had vanished with Lucy’s death. It was a wound that would never fully close.
The locket’s chain bit into her palm as she clenched it tightly, anger rising unbidden in the pit of her stomach. Lucy had been her guide, her protector, but in the end, even she had been as human and vulnerable as Catherine felt now. And yet, her words lingered, fragile but unyielding, a lifeline in the impenetrable darkness Maxwell had constructed around her.
Her gaze shifted to the law textbook, the highlighted passages glowing faintly in the dim light. One section caught her eye—a passage on personal rights, inked over with Lucy’s handwriting from years ago when they’d studied together for fun. *“Justice is not a privilege; it is a necessity,”* Lucy’s looping scrawl declared.
Justice. The word felt distant, almost laughable, considering her reality. Maxwell’s control stretched far beyond the gilded walls of the estate, his dominance reinforced by wealth and charm. And yet, wasn’t that what Lucy had fought for in her own way? Her defiance, her refusal to let their father’s cruelty define her, had planted a seed in Catherine—a seed that had never fully withered, even as years of fear buried it deep.
Catherine closed the textbook and set it aside, her fingers brushing the photo inside the locket once more. Lucy’s laughing face stared back at her, a silent reminder of what had been lost—and of what might still be reclaimed.
The room felt colder than before, the shadows deeper. But somewhere in the depths of her mind, a faint ember flared to life. It wasn’t enough to banish the darkness, but it was enough to hold onto.
For now, that ember was all she had. But maybe—just maybe—it could grow into something more.
