The Black Swan | Reposted

Chapter 65 - The Truth

Have you ever stared at something, a face, a room, a structure, and what you're seeing doesn't really register? It's as if your eyes are fluttering over what it really is seeing. It's like... a coping mechanism. It's a way that your mind protects itself, so it hides what you desperately shouldn't see.

My eyes were fluttering over this room, over this... over this discovery that I wish I hadn't found. Could I go back in time? I was holding the door, staring, wondering if I just stepped out, if I just shut and locked the door... could I forget?

The answer was no.

The room was a pale, depressing color but what blew my fucking mind was .... It was a crime scene?

The room was large but almost as if it was cut in half by this strange dividing wall. It created a square. In these square housed fake costumes for some kind of performance, it held a sewing machine.

It had a body outline on the glossy hardwood floor.

I was trembling.

"What the fuck is this?" I whispered.

I began to walk, my legs managing to move despite this shockwave. My eyes were blurring out my surroundings, maybe trying to protect me from whatever it was I'd see. I was only seeing a little bit at a time, only processing so much. On the far wall was a desk, and on this desk there were crime scene photos.

"Oh dear God," My eyes were massive at the sight of the photos- Harrys mother. "Oh Anne," I hiccupped. I swallowed at the sight of tiny hand prints in the photo, I could only assume those were Harrys, the prints of his hand caked in his mother's blood. I glanced back, seeing how the replica of the crime scene in the room matched the photos perfectly.

"He recreated it?" I shook and rubbed my temples after dropping the photos. He was fixated on this scene, the scene where he found her cold and bleeding. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, my legs moving. I glanced over, seeing a slew of things

Her sewing machine sat, perfectly shined and polished. There were framed photos of them hung on the walls too, up until she passed. I walked over to a large dresser, seeing her dresses, blouses and other tops neatly folded, perfumes, jewelry sat on top of the dresser. He kept everything of hers. He even had her toothbrush.

I swallowed and picked up a hair brush, imagining her, fussing with Harrys mess of hair. I shook and kept moving, walking behind this odd wall that was clearly makeshift. As I got closer to it, my heart was racing

I rounded the corner and it was fairly empty, till I saw the back of the makeshift wall.

It was my mother in the dead center, a photo of me right next to her. All these threads and arrows, documents, photos, they all waved into this intricate web.

I was reading over everything, seeing photos of Robin, banks statements, my mom, so many images of my mom. I was reading and reading, these pieces nearly connecting in my head. I could almost see them come together, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. I was processing, my mind trying to adapt to this.

"Odette?" Harry shouted and I spun. I was about to run out but... I'd let him find me. I held a file, and heard his steps get closer, and closer. I came around the corner, standing in the mock up of the crime scene.

The door creaked open farther, and there he was.

We locked eyes. He had to have read how I felt, because silence engulfed the room and fear, anxiety and stress flooded his eyes. I couldn't imagine what signals my eyes were giving off

"How did you get in here?" his voice was tense.

"Y-You think my mom... murdered your mother?" he was silent. "You are... crazy."