Chapitre 28: Chapter XXIII
The tension imprisoned within the room was suffocating; the air all but pressing the walls inwards and ready to collapse. Cave in and crumble, till there was nothing left but sod and wreckage and clouds of dust.
"Goodbye," Richard said, walking off abruptly. Richard felt the disappointment of the young woman, the clear and utter disappointment in his character; and it was the fact that he was convinced Mathi was looking down on him, that was especially provoking him. Richard's mind remained in a state of resent and humiliation as he sped through the hallway, past a disgruntled old governess that stepped out of his way, and Richard descended the frontal stairs and hurried along the driveway through the drizzling night. He did not always feel so absolutely certain of himself, so entirely convinced that he was right, and she was wrong. He walked off in complete self-approbation.
Richard Crawford hastened on, quickening his step as he approached the tall iron gate. He bit his lip, and for a few seconds his conviction faltered, and it awoke a strange pain in his chest. He did not turn, however, and as he opened the gate and went under the dim archway, Richard felt a rough hand close around his lapels, and before he had time to defend himself he was thrust back against the moist iron bars of the open gate, with two brutal hands clenched in the front of his rain-soaked jacket.
He struggled and cried out, and the dusky outline of a tall, thick-set man in the backlight of the lantern was all he could see. Richard's heartbeat lumped out if his chest and he grew nigh sick with fear.
"W—what— what do you want?" he cried.
"Quiet," said the man. "Quiet or you're dead."
Richard nodded fervently. Rendered powerless with terror, he did not know what to do. What did he want? Money? Richard had none. He had none. He wanted to shout it: he had none. He was only here because he had none. But his throat constricted and forbade him to.
"You're a dog. As much as the lot of them." The man said. Richard closed his eyes. He did not dare breath. And then the grip loosened, and the man reeled back. Richard stood there. Staggering. Gasping for breath, tears in his eyes. 'Oh, god,' he thought. 'Oh, dear god. He was going to kill me.' His eyes filled with tears and he pressed his palms over them. Richard's shoulders started shaking uncontrollably and a sob escaped him. He collapsed down the iron bars of the gate till he was seated on the gravel. His knees pulled up. His chest and shoulders moving in heavy, painful shocks.
A loud cry had him start. Richard let out a surprised whimper. Noises were erupting from the parlour and Richard quieted.
"NO! I— will not! Release me, cretin! Get out! GET OUT!"
Richard rose immediately and broke into a run. He stumbled. His heart thundered within his chest. Richard threw open the garden-door to the parlour and regarded the scene. Realisation came to him slowly. The man had seized Mathi by her upper arm and she was kicking and scratching at her assaulter, demanding him to release her. It happened quickly. The man growled low in his chest and threw her off as Mathilda landed a vicious strike. She toppled back. For a moment it seemed as if she would regain her footing. Then she fell. Shattering resounded through the expanse.
"Mathilda!" Richard cried. His feet unfroze and he scrambled towards her, twice colliding with the furniture in his hurry to get to her, his vision doubling.
Mathilda Aldouin brought her shaking hand up, glass shards melding with the flesh of her palm, and a splint of glass lay heavy in her palm like a sign of what was to come. Richard's knees hit the ground. He was grasping her shoulders, her face, wiping away her tears while he himself didn't realise they were rushing down his face in thick rivulets. He could see her trying to talk to him, but Richard's ears were filled with sirens. Broken sounds escaped him; sobs that felt like rods of iron being forced from his throat.
Mathilda dug her fingers into his shoulders, clutching desperately, and she rocked her face gently against his arm, almost nuzzling, holding him fiercely. And Richard was wordless, either wordless or holding back all his words, he didn't understand himself and Mathilda felt warm and breathing and there, with him, until the shaking decreased. Richard's heart leaped in his chest and a thin sheen of sweat broke out at his hairline. Mathilda went limp in his hands and the noise that whined from the pit of Richard's stomach wasn't human. He clutched at the hand in his and pressed it against his chest, tears dripping.
"MathiMathiMathi—" he whispered hoarsely. Richard wanted to shout it. But his voice wouldn't cooperate. The silence that answered him was somehow louder than the hurricane in his own head. Richard was unwell, his heart was thumping in his chest, his stomach was rolling and that pain behind his ribs was back again.
Richard didn't know when he'd buried his face into the soft fabric of Mathi's dress, but he pressed in as close as he could.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry—"
He released her finally. Laying her down as softly as he could. She needed a cushion, Richard reasoned. Otherwise her neck would hurt. He began looking around for a cushion before the futility of his pursuance set in. He attempted to stand. And failed.
Having pulled himself upon an ottoman, Richard Crawford stared at the small, broken splinters in his hands and pressed it hard into his skin until it stung. Pain lanced up his left hand. Tiny, insignificant things were driving him to horror and were rapidly on their way to make him truly insane. The standing clock in the hallway resounded its call; the charcoal drawings on the desk drifting in the draught of the wide open garden-door shifted; the doorpost creaked without cause; a cloud passed by the moon and the room was momentarily bedecked in shadows; a door opened.
A cry resounded like it was coming from behind thick glass.
"—Oh God!"
He turned his head round to see the picture of Mathi's governess in the doorframe, an utterly panic-stricken look on her visage. Richard Crawford relaxed his hand and the shattered glass slipped between his fingers.
"Help..." he pleaded, "...help me..."
The petrified governess shook her head in disbelief, unable to wholly register the scene before her. Her breath, along with her legs, visibly staggered. Richard, now fully aware of the situation — painfully so — cried:
"Get out or help me! Get out — don't... don't stare at her! Don't stare! Just cut it out! Just cut it out! Cut it outcutitout!"
The woman broke out into a sob, and fled the scene. Shouting and crying something indistinguishable.
Realisation then hit him. He threw a haunted look around the room and found himself alone. His heart skipped. He was utterly alone. Richard swallowed, a sick swell of nausea running through him, sweat standing out across his back, his hands curling into fists of the fabric of the ottoman and it seemed to Richard as if the room around him burned. It burned right at the edges of his mind, he could hear it now, phantom flames crackling and popping and leaping and devouring, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He could smell it. Feel its heat. Taste the destruction in the back of his throat. He was alone.
He needed to leave.
Richard needed to leave right now.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone