1st Chapter Critiques

If my tears hadn’t paid for this mansion, maybe I wouldn’t feel so bitter about living in it. But they did, and so I hate it.

 

My parents decorated the hallway with everything they wanted in a home. It’s all a bit…excessive.

 

When there are hungry and homeless people in Serency or those who can’t pay for medical care, having anything extravagant feels selfish…wasteful. We—really any of the upper class here in Noravale—could be making a difference and helping those in need instead of hoarding it all. But I get no say because my diamond tears belong to Mother and Father.

 

A lush carpet lines the floor. Custom pottery sit on pillars as tall as myself. Silk curtains adorn tall windows so pristinely clean I swear I could reach right through them. Wrought iron sconces burning cinderrose-scented candles light my way. As I walk down the hall of the grand foyer to my parents’ room, a sense of dread settles like a stone in my stomach.

 

Unlike most people, I don’t shed regular tears. Instead, the hard, tiny gems fall from my eyes. Diamond tears, my blessing and my curse.

 

The colorful drapes hanging from the ceiling are the most recent addition to this absurd collection of unnecessary belongings. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind luxury, but not at anyone else’s expense. It jolts me back to the time I was five years old and Mother wanted a new jewelry set.

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My diamond tears have always caused me sharp, intense eye pain and occasionally cut my cheeks as they spill over. Until that day, I hadn’t reached a breaking point. But that time, when I begged Mother to stop, she refused and said I mustn’t love her enough to give her what she wanted. And so, I cried until my eyes turned bloodshot and I couldn’t open them for days.

 

My gut wrenches at the memory, yet I continue my trek and pass every painting on the wall, knowing full well where they came from—who bought them. I was ten when Father wanted to replace the collection he’d only gotten the year prior.

 

“We have to impress our guests. Don’t worry. It will all be over soon.” Except I’m sixteen now, and it’s not over. It will never be over.

 

Not as long as I need to help my sister, Al.

 

I approach the laughter that echoes from the door of my parents’ room, open just a crack. A pattern of silver swirls coats the door frame and that pit in my stomach is now an anvil. All our doors were plain before Mother complained that Lady Amatsu was showing us up with the most gorgeously decorated doors in her house.

 

I scratch my back where a similar pattern of scars hides. It makes me want to rip all the silken folds off my dress and leave my wrists and fingers bare of their bangles and rings for how much pain they’ve cost me. I inhale deeply and push past the door.

 

“Cadence! Thank the gods you’re finally here. We have to pay Dr. Hyu in a few hours,” Mother says. She’s sitting by her vanity, dabbing blush on her cheeks and admiring herself in the mirror. Her long brown hair matches my own, except hers is smoother. Mine is mixed hair, a combination of straight, wavy, and frizzy locks. I like to thank Father for giving me the variety.

 

I tuck a strand behind my ear and close the door as if sealing my fate. Their room looks smaller than I remember. There is so much glittering gold in the décor, from small statues and trinkets sitting on all available flat surfaces to multicolored tapestries of castles and landscapes. Globe lights hang from the ceiling, equally spread out around a two-tiered chandelier.

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I have to squint at first to adjust to the brightness. When I do, my gaze sweeps the room and I stifle a scoff. Since when did they have busts of themselves made? Father stands by his statue with his arms folded, and I remember when Al and I were younger, we used to hang and swing on each arm, giggling and smiling. Now, we’re on our own, struggling to hold on to something that’s not even there— and maybe never was.

 

I’ve never believed my parents were on my side. After all their greed, how can I trust them? But I still hope they’ll change some-day—for their daughters’ sake. But I’m not sure we’ll ever be the family I want us to be.

 

“Do you need any help, Cadence?” Father asks as he walks over to Mother, their dark brown and white skin in stark contrast to each other. My sister’s and my shared skin tone is somewhere in the middle—white like our mom’s, with an olive undertone.

 

I return to Father’s question. Do I need any help? Help? If you need to help me cry, all you have to do is tell me about all the promises you two have broken. But nothing can break my sealed lips because right now, my parents aren’t worth my breath. I shake my head.

 

It’s not the first time I’ve cried on command, but the billionth time isn’t any easier. I usually picture something sad—like a future where I’m never allowed to leave the house for the rest of my life— and the tears flow. Other times, I’m so detached from my body— like some incorporeal spirit—that nothing comes out. That’s when Mother and Father beat me—only mentally, but still awful—what-ever it takes to make me start bawling. The worry in my stomach crushes my insides. I should know better than to put up with it. But I’ll do anything to help Al.

 

Whatever it takes.

 

This time, I envision if my sister was gone—if her neuromuscular disease progressed so rapidly that she died, leaving me alone.

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Oh, gods. What would I do?

 

Al is worth more than the world to me. Even though she’s two years older than me, I still try to protect her from Mother and Father. But she’s usually the one holding me together.

 

I can’t help believing that if she died, I’ll have failed her. All the weight rests on my shoulders, and I know whom our parents would blame for her passing.

 

The morbid thoughts are working. A coolness settles in the corners of my eyes, and soon diamonds are landing in my cupped hands with tiny clinks. My tear ducts scream for relief as each finely cut gem slices past my sclerae like a butcher knife.

 

I’ve gotten used to some of the pain over time, but I’ll never be completely numb. I finish lamenting over my sister’s imagined death, ending the torturous flow of riches. My eyes burn and my cheeks ache as if I’d been crying normal tears—the way Al looks when she cries.

 

The diamonds in my palms reflect the light of the other jewels and trinkets overtaking the room, mocking me. I release them into Mother’s hands—her delicate fingers with long painted nails closing over them like claws. Her eyes glint even brighter than the diamonds do.

 

Father flashes his pearly whites and pockets some of my tears for himself. “Thank the gods again for your gift,” he says, a familiar refrain so cold and lifeless it only makes me shiver.

 

Gift? This so-called gift has brought me more than physical pain. Has forced me to cry in private. Live in complete privacy. No one can know about it because then they’d want to use me. Take advantage of me. At least, that’s what Mother and Father say. Isn’t it funny how they’re doing the very thing they’re protecting me from?

 

But I don’t voice any of my thoughts. I just nod and exit the room, wondering if they even realize I hadn’t spoken a word.