Chapter 3

She needed it to end but she couldn't stop it. She had seen it all, but for some reason, she still gets hurt by it over and over. She gathered herself together; she had to. If she didn't, who would save her?

Freja brought her attention back to her bleeding leg. It wasn't that serious, the pain didn't even match what she had been going through internally. She pulled herself up by supporting her weight with the dining chair. She then limped to the store room and returned shortly afterwards with a long broom and a packer. 

She carefully swept up the pieces of broken glass from the floor, taking her time to pick as much as she could see. Afterwards, she walked over the area with her bare feet, an act she regretted instantly as tiny pieces of glass clung to her feet. She sat down and gently cleaned them off. It was crazy, but she had to do it, she didn't want more yelling from Clinton, and if Philip, by chance, injured himself from this, he would forget that he did it and take it out on her.

She limped back to the store room and returned with a vacuum cleaner this time around, returning the broom and parker. Clinton would never let her use it when he's around; he would complain that she's being lazy.

She carefully cleaned up the whole area. She then got a container filled with water and a rag; with it, she cleaned up the spilled tea and arranged the whole dining room. When she finished, she returned the toast and tray to the kitchen. She had no appetite to eat at the moment.

She got the first aid kit and took it to the living room, placing it down on the table before she sat down, taking some time to catch her breath. It was just 10.34 am, but she felt like she had worked all day. She had instinctively rubbed over the soft cushion as she admired how comfortable it was. Clinton would never permit her to sit here; he would send her to her room each night he wanted to watch the news or confine her to the small parlour, a habit that she had gotten used to by now.

She had just finished cleaning up the injury and applying the right antiseptics when Philip stormed into the living room.

"Mummy, I'm hungry!" His usual bubbling self yelled as he jumped on her from the back of the cushion.

The young Philip was yet to know the difference between her and Freja. Since she moved in, he has been calling her 'mummy', apparently, Clinton had yet to tell him of his mother's death. He was yet to call her in Clinton's face, though; she had a funny feeling he would blow up if he heard it. 

"What would you like to eat, my son?" she replied. She had quickly grown fond of the little boy and accepted his name for her. She would spend all day with him when Clinton was away and would still spend the night with him, but only in his room. Clinton was never happy to see them together.

"Bread. I want bread," he said dramatically. He dragged her hair playfully. Freja pulled him to herself, placing him on her lap. Then tapped on his tummy before tickling him vigorously. "What are you doing?" He managed to say between laughs. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" He yelled as he laughed and shook his body fiercely.

She continued, as she spread her hand around his midsection. It was one of those times she let her guard down and had fun for real.

"Stop!—"

Suddenly, the front door burst open, and Clinton came running in. He dumped the small bag of food he had returned with and rushed at Freja, pushing her away and picking Philip up in his arms.

"What the fuck?!" He yelled as he dropped Clinton beside him.

"No, Clinton. It's not what it looks like, I can explain—" Freja tried to say as she stood to her feet.

"Explain what?" Clinton interjected. "How you want to choke my son? Your sister's only child?" He asked. His temper was rising slightly. He had stepped out to take a breath as he didn't go to the office today. He branched an eatery to eat and decided to take it out at once, grabbing something for Philip too and some snacks that he felt the child would love.

Freja didn't hear wen he pulled into the driveway, but he heard the screams from Philip as he was walking towards the front door. He didn't listen twice before barging into what he felt was Philip's rescue.

"No, Clinton. I wasn't—" she tried again, but he cut her off again.

"Save it. I always knew you hated your sister. I knew you never wished her well, and now, you are transferring the same hatred to her only son."

Philip tugged at his shirt, trying to grab his attention all along. "Dad, Mummy wasn't choking me, we were just playing," he finally spoke out.

Freja nearly choked herself. She wished she could have rushed over and stopped the words from coming out of his mouth, but it was too late. She had seen this coming, but she couldn't help it, she loved the sound of it, and now, she's faced with the consequence.

"What did you just call her?" Clinton asked slowly. The words slurred out of his lips through gritted teeth. Freja watched as his eyes grew cold, his gaze flicked between Philip and her, and his hands twitched slightly.

"Mummy," the innocent child said slowly as he covered his mouth with his two hands. He shrank under his father's intense glare.

"Who told you that she's your mother?" He barked.

"Clinton, it's not his fault," she said.

"Yes, it's not," he agreed. Then he turned his attention to Philip. "She's not your mother, she's Freja, your mother's twin sister!" He yelled.

"Clinton!" Freja yelled as she watched the little boy quiver in fear.

"Stay out of this, Freja," he said, pointing a hand at her. 

Tears began to flow from Philip's eyes as he shook uncontrollably. "No, it can't be," he cried, "she's my mother."

"She is not!" Clinton yelled. "Tell him the truth, Freja," he yelled at her.

She was reluctant to speak; instead, she tried to step towards Philip. "Clinton, you don't have to do this."

"Tell him the truth!" Clinton yelled, unfazed by her pleas.

Tears rolled down Freja's face as she stared at Philip's broken eyes. He had turned his gaze to her, his eyes pleading with Freja to tell him what he wanted to hear.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. She stared at the floor, too ashamed to stare at his eyes. "I'm not your mother, Philip. I'm your mother's sister."

It had been coming for a while now; she knew she couldn't hide it for long, but now, she regretted hiding it at all. The pain in his eyes was too much; she had kept it from him to keep him happy, but now, she realized she only made it worse.

"No!" Philip yelled before running out of the living room. A few seconds later, a loud bang could be heard.

"Clinton, why? Why did you have to do that?" She cried. "I know you don't like me, but why did you have to hurt the boy that way?"

"I only told him the truth. You hurt him by lying to him. It's all your fault, everything is your fault."

"How's it my fault? You don't have time for him. Clinton, have you ever wondered for a second how much that boy needs his father? Have you ever thought about the way he has felt this past year without his mother?"

"Look, Freja or whatever the fuck you call yourself. Stay out of my business. Stay away from me, from my son and stay away from my family business. There's nothing between us, and you know this, so stop acting like any of this matters to you. You are not Freya, you are not his mother, and you most certainly can never be my wife. You don't fit it, you don't look it and you ain't up to the level, so mind your business and stay away from mine, you troll."

With that, he stormed away, forgetting the bag of food he returned with. None of that mattered again, right now, the only thing Freja could feel was the rising pressure in her heart. She packed up the kit and returned to her room. It had all happened before; she knew the script. She had heard those words before, but this hurt more than the other.

She tried lying down but it didn't

take away the pain in her chest. It was familiar, one she had felt not too long ago.