The old manor, once a happy place with family gatherings and lots of noise, had turned into a sad reminder of loss. The ceilings were so high that the quiet felt trapped, and every little sound in the halls seemed louder and sadder. For Christina, this was all she knew. She grew up with a housekeeper who felt sorry for her but didn't show much emotion, and she learned to stay out of sight.
Even as a baby, she was quiet and noticed everything. Her bright blue eyes, just like her brother's, never missed a thing. She quickly figured out that when her dad's boots made loud, heavy steps, it was best to hide. She'd go to the library and hide behind the dusty curtains that smelled old, running her finger over the designs on the worn-out rug.
Alistair Jenson was like a ghost in his own life. He drank whiskey from morning until night, and the smell of it always hung around him. He couldn't bear to look at Christina because she reminded him of his dead wife, the sound of glass breaking, and that final, quiet moment.
At first, he didn't hit her, but he ignored her completely, which was just as bad. He wouldn't hold her or talk to her. He called her the girl or it. If she fell, he'd just walk past her without even looking, like she was just a piece of furniture. Her brother, Clark, who was also just a kid, became like her parent. He'd help her up, wipe her knees, and say, "It's okay, Christina. I'm here. I see you."
The first time he actually hurt her was when she was four. She was playing with a colorful ball, and her giggles (which were rare) echoed through the house. The ball rolled into Alistair's study, and she carefully pushed open the heavy door. He was sitting at his desk, looking at a small painting of his dead wife. The ball bumped into a small table holding an expensive glass vase: a wedding gift and one of the last things he had of hers.
The vase wobbled and crashed to the floor. In the quiet house, the sound of the glass breaking was deafening.
Alistair looked up, his sad eyes suddenly filled with anger. He was on her in seconds. "You clumsy thing!" he shouted, his voice loud in the room. He slapped her hard across the face, and she stopped giggling and started crying. She fell to the floor among the broken glass, a scared little girl.
"You break everything!" he yelled, standing over her. "You're a curse!"
Clark ran in, his small feet loud on the floor. Even though he was only ten, he was built like his father, but he had a kind heart. He jumped between his dad and his sister, pushing against Alistair's legs. "Stop it! Leave her alone! It was an accident!:
Alistair looked at his son, his anger fading for a moment, replaced with shame and sadness. He stepped back, touching his head as if he was in pain. "Get her out of here", he said, his voice tired. "Clean up this mess."
Clark didn't wait. He picked up his crying sister, ignoring the glass cutting into his skin, and carried her to the kitchen. He cleaned the cut on her cheek, crying too. That night, as he put her to bed, he promised her, "I won't let him hurt you. I'll protect you. I will protect you always." He said this over and over again to her every year.
But things had changed. The anger had become real. The darkness in the house was now dangerous.