Desmond rose from the ground with difficulty. His legs no longer responded the same, as if the cold had settled into his bones. Still, not daring to delay even a single minute, he staggered back into the house. Every step felt like an additional punishment.
The first thing he did was return to the bathroom- to clean himself before continuing. But there was no steam, no comfort, no hot water. Only the stagnant barrel of icy water, waiting for him like a frozen reminder of his place in the world.
He undressed clumsily, his hands still stained with mud and dried blood.
His breath trembled more than his body. But when he touched the water with his fingers, he shuddered again, as if needles had pierced beneath his skin.
-"Just... make it quick..." -he whispered with a broken voice.
He grabbed a ladle from the side and poured the freezing water over himself all at once.
A sharp inhale shot through his body, his jaw trembling, mouth slightly open.
Soaking himself with such icy water felt like being stabbed with frost-he whimpered in pain, quickly silencing himself to keep breathing. A strained gasp escaped him as he clutched his chest, eyes shut tight, trembling, trying to endure.
He exhaled first, picked up the ladle again, and let the water run down his back- burning like fire, as if his skin no longer knew how to shield him from the cold.
With the same rough, dried-out bar of soap as always, he scrubbed his arms, shoulders, legs, and neck, even though every motion burned. Each rinse made his chest clench and tremble. At some point, the tears returned- silent, bitter- but this time he didn't even bother to wipe them away.
When he finally finished, shivering, he dried himself as best he could with a coarse towel and rubbed his hair before dressing again.
Chose a simple shirt and a pair of shorts-something that wouldn't draw attention.
There was still so much left to do.
Left the bathroom, his damp hair leaving a faint trail down the hallway.
The butler, Cowell, was already waiting with a new list in hand.
-"The furniture, the mirrors, every corner. Your father said not a single speck of dust is to remain." -Cowell said, firm but not cruel, precise.
Desmond nodded without a word and took the old rag Cowell handed him, along with a bucket of water-cold, as expected, and meant to be reused for everything.
He crossed the sitting room and knelt before one of the large pieces of furniture, its dark wood carved with moldings that trapped dust like thorns.
He began to scrub, cleaning meticulously.
Each movement was a fight against sleep and cold. As he kept cleaning, now on the second floor and onto the third room, his fingers no longer obeyed with precision.
When he tried to wipe a porcelain vase on a shelf, he held it with both hands, but slipped slightly- his foot having landed in water he'd spilled earlier.
The vase trembled in his grip. He tried his best to hold it, but his fingers failed him, and his body fell violently from the chair.
The sound was sharp. Glass against wood. A loud crash.
Silence.
Then footsteps.
Heavy.
Rigid.
Heeled steps coming from the library toward the sitting room.
Desmond didn't need to turn. He knew it was his father.
He immediately sat up, his hands trembling, unsure of what to do or say.
Then came that guttural voice, slicing through the air.
-"What... did you do?" -cold as ice.
The boy knelt beside the shards, trembling, lips parted.
-"I... I didn't mean to... it was an accident..."
-"An accident?" -his father echoed, his tone rising dangerously
-"AN ACCIDENT?!"
Without another word, he grabbed Desmond's arm and yanked him up.
The boy flinched as his shoulder was wrenched, dragged two steps back.
Then the blow came- a dry hit to his side that knocked the air from his lungs.
The duke's voice exploded with rage- unhinged, molten fury spilling from him in waves.
-"You're not a girl!!" -he roared, shoving Desmond against the edge of the couch- "You're a Fontclair!! Fontclairs don't cry!! They don't fail!! They don't apologize!! THEY. ARE. NOT. WEAK!! Just look at you! You think you're worth anything?!"
Desmond, shielding his face, collapsed to his knees again. Tears streamed uncontrollably, hot, bitter, a flood of pure helplessness.
But his father only looked down at him with disdain.
-"Clean it up. Then finish the rest. If anything else breaks... next time it'll be the cane-or worse. You won't just run. You'll carry stones one by one around the rose garden behind this mansion before dawn. You got that?!"
He didn't wait for a reply.
It wasn't a question. It was a command.
The duke turned with heavy steps, leaving the boy there, gasping for air, his body curled in fear and shame.
And even then, Desmond obeyed with a single nod.
Picked up the shattered glass with bare hands. Breathing through sobs and mucus. Wiping his face with the back of his wrist. Slicing his fingers again as he gathered the pieces. A sharp breath between clenched teeth. His knuckles bled. His palms, too. But he didn't notice. The panic-fueled adrenaline kept him going.
When he finished, he moved on.
Room by room, he cleaned the tall mirror frames in the hallways, the rusted photo frames left forgotten, the dusty candelabras.
Using a damp rag that no longer cleaned, only smeared the filth.
Still, he didn't stop.
There was more.
The beds.
Exhausted, he looked at each bed's size, then began making them one by one. Pulling the sheets tight, smoothing each blanket.
The empty rooms felt colder than outside. As dust stung his eyes, and making him cough.
Later he swept the wooden floors, gathering debris, bits of cloth, stray hair.
And when there was hardly any strength left in his back, he went to the laundry room.
There, an endless line of sheets, towels, and clothes awaited him.
Bed linens, napkins, shirts. All had to be hand washed.
Then plunged his wounded hands into the cold water in the wooden basins.
Soap burned the open cuts like liquid fire. Every movement was slow, painful, but didn't stop.
He scrubbed harder. Until his knuckles turned raw, open, red.
Then, behind him, the voice thundered again:
-"What is this?"
Desmond spun around.
His father stood at the doorway to the laundry room, as his face twisted in disgust.
-"That's it?" -he stepped closer, his face a mask of fury.
-"WEAKNESS? Are you tired of being human?! SAY IT! If you can't do this right-get out! Maybe then you'll learn how to do things the way you're told!" -continued.
Desmond didn't understand the question.
His mouth opened, then closed.
No words came.
He only trembled.
He only existed in that moment.
Then his father came so close, he could feel his heavy breath closer.
-"SAY IT." -he roared
-"¡Say it right now! ¡You're tired of being human!"
The boy, soaked, shivering, barely whispered:
-"...n-no..."
As a sharp blow hit his shoulder.
-"¡Louder!"
-"¡No! ¡¡I'm not tired of being human!!"
He shouted suddenly, almost without realizing it.
Then, the silence that followed after was thick and poisonous.
Next, his father looked at him with a twisted smile.
Said nothing more.
Just turned and left.
But in the air, something worse than yelling lingered.
The unspoken threat, that more was coming.
So Desmond he collapsed to his knees in front of the basin.
His hands still in the water.
His fingers were blue.
His face stained with tears.
And his eyes...
more and more hollow.