Chapter XXIIII: Secrets (5)

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With that final brutal pronouncement, she pivoted on her heels and strode away without a single backwards glance, her noble bearing unmarred save for the nearly imperceptible tremor in her clenched hands. The rest of her cohorts exchanged puzzled looks before shrugging in unison and drifting off to tend to less aesthetically displeasing matters.

And there, amid the glittering trappings of opulence and indulgent splendor, Constance remained crumpled on the floor like so much discarded human detritus, alone with the smothering weight of her grief.

For years she had endured Harriet’s rejections, their shared bond stretched taut as gossamer by the caprices of fate and human avarice.

Yet somehow, even when convinced her heart could be unmended no further, this latest wound managed to burrow deeper, lacerating her very soul until she wondered if anything salvageable remained.

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Constance found herself accused of theft and locked in a dingy storage room through the night. The musty air hung thick and stale, the dim light filtering in through the small window barely illuminating the cramped space. She paced back and forth, her mind racing as she tried to make sense of the unjust situation. How could they accuse her of such a thing? She was innocent, and yet no one seemed willing to listen to her pleas.

As the hours ticked by, her anxiety mounted, the walls feeling as though they were closing in around her. She longed for a friendly face, someone to reassure her that everything would be alright. But there was no one, just the deafening silence and her own troubled thoughts.

The next morning, around midday, the police came and took her away. As they dragged her and shoved her in the back of the van, she caught a glimpse of her daughter, Harriet, watching from the deck with dispassionate interest. The anger and hatred she saw in her eyes broke her. This was not how she had expected things to go. Their relationship had been strained for years, but she never imagined her own daughter could look at her with such disdain.

Once she was back in Marseille, as expected, she was thrown in jail, awaiting her trial. The days blurred together in that dank, overcrowded cell. Her plea of innocence or request to at least talk to Harriet fell on deaf ears. The guards seemed to take pleasure in her suffering, ignoring her cries for help.

Constance had accepted her fate, resigned to the injustice of it all. She just never expected that the next time she would be meeting her daughter, they would be sharing a jail cell. When the heavy metal door swung open and Harriet was shoved inside, Constance could scarcely believe her eyes.

In the month since she had last seen her, Harriet had become a shell of her former self, walking with a limp and her arm in a cast. Her once vibrant eyes were dull and lifeless, her spirit seemingly crushed. Harriet didn’t spare her a glance and kept to herself, huddled in the corner like a wounded animal.

Constance’s heart broke at the sight, but she knew better than to push. She found out from the guards, after bribing them with what little money she had, that Harriet was being accused of vehicular manslaughter. After a night of fun and drinking, she took to the wheel despite being intoxicated, ran a red light and rammed into an oncoming car. Three people died in that accident while Harriet and her friends got away with minor wounds. In the car there had been a pregnant woman and her two young children.

The weight of Harriet’s actions hung heavy in the air, an unspoken tragedy that seemed to suck all the light and hope from their dismal surroundings. Constance longed to reach out, to comfort her daughter in her time of need. But the wall between them, built from years of resentment and misunderstanding, felt insurmountable.

A week after Harriet was thrown in jail, she had a visitor. The guard gruffly informed her, “You’ve got a visitor. Friend named Monique.”

Constance watched as a flicker of light appeared in Harriet’s dull eyes at the mention of her friend’s name. She limped excitedly after the guard, looking more animated than Constance had seen her in weeks.

Constance smiled faintly, hoping Monique’s visit would bring some good news to lift her daughter’s spirits. She could use a boost after the darkness they’ve been living in.

However, Constance’s hopeful feelings were shattered an hour later when Harriet was dragged back into the cell by two burly guards. Her clothes were disheveled, hair askew, as if she’d been in a struggle. They unceremoniously dumped her on the cold, hard floor with a parting kick.

“Behave yourself or you’ll find yourself in solitary,” one of the guards snarled before they slammed the barred door shut with a resounding clang.

“Harriet!” Constance cried, rushing to her daughter’s side. She was greeted with a sullen, hollow look as Harriet sported some new bruises blooming on her fair skin. Her eyes looked absolutely lifeless.

For the next two days, Harriet laid unmoving on the creaky bunk, doing nothing but staring blankly at the cracked ceiling. She didn’t respond to any of Constance’s gentle inquiries or attempts at conversation.

It broke Constance’s heart to see the light completely extinguished from her child this way. Though Harriet has never acknowledged her as her mother, Constance still loved her with every fiber of her being and wished her nothing but goodwill.

On the third day, a stern-faced lawyer came to speak with Harriet. When she returned from the meeting an hour later, her eyes were filled with a burning hatred unlike anything Constance had seen before.

Harriet spent the next few days screaming and rattling the bars, demanding audience with Monique in between bouts of calling her friend a “traitor” and worse. The guards’ warnings to settle down fell on deaf ears.

Unable to tolerate her unruly behavior any longer, four guards burst into the cell and despite Constance’s pleas, they hauled Harriet out and threw her in solitary confinement for a week’s punishment.

It was the longest, most agonizing week of Constance’s life. She pleaded every day for information, for visitation, for anything regarding her daughter’s wellbeing. But the guards strictly rebuffed her at every turn.

How could a mother bear to have her child suffering so intolerably just yards away while being powerless to help? The not knowing was the most torturous part for Constance.

All she could do was wait in turmoil and pray her daughter wasn’t being mistreated further.

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