Novel Palace
Failure to Match: Chapter 32
I snuck back into the library again that night, once it became apparent that Jackson wasn’t going to be visiting.
For the life of me, I couldn’t come up with a single justification for my decision. I knew it was wrong, I knew it was a massive violation of Jackson’s privacy and trust, I knew how upset he’d be if he found out, but I still went ahead and did it anyway.
After three full hours of staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, I slid out of bed, put on a pair of yellow fuzzy socks (for stealth-walking purposes), and quietly crept to the other side of the penthouse.Content © copyrighted by NôvelDrama.Org.
After checking to make sure there was no light leaking from beneath the door, I unlocked it and slipped inside. This time, without the initial element of surprise, I could absorb more of the art, take in more details, open more books.
It was unbelievably endearing, watching the growth in artistic skill and sophistication from the books targeting younger kids to middle schoolers, YA, and beyond. I loved the sketches he’d done inside the pages, his highlighted passages, his little notes and annotations (which became increasingly rare as he grew).
It was a bit like peering into his soul, and he was so breathtakingly beautiful it made me ache.
When I’d had my temporary fill of the creative stuff, I opened the secret door, slipped into the secret room, and grabbed the two journals I hadn’t read through yet. Even though I knew it wouldn’t get better. Even though I knew it would wreck me.
By the time I was done with the last one (which ended when Jackson was nineteen), my throat hurt, my eyes were swollen, and I had some very concrete plans to visit Richard Sinclair’s grave and spit on it.
He was so vile, so evil and cruel, that I couldn’t bring myself to feel even an ounce of sympathy for him when Molly noted how desperately in love he’d been with his wife; how deep in denial about her unending affairs.
According to Molly, Jackson was forced to watch his father throw countless rage-induced tantrums, agonizing over his wife’s whereabouts late at night. He’d smash things. Throw vulgar insults at anyone within his line of sight. And go on extremely destructive drinking binges that made him even more violent.
When Jackson’s mother finally did come home, all it would take was a single one of her smiles and a purred excuse to calm Richard down. She’d charm him into utter submission, kiss away his anger, and when he wasn’t looking, tell Jackson exactly how pathetic she thought her husband was.
A week or two later, the cycle would repeat.
Jackson witnessed his father’s friends whisper about Beatrice’s affairs behind his back. He witnessed how easily the man could be manipulated by his wife. How he bent to her every mood and whim. How destructive he became when he thought he was losing her.
Every time he found out about another one of Beatrice’s lovers, he’d take it out on Jackson. He couldn’t control his wife, so he tried his damnedest with his son.
That was what romantic love looked like to Jackson growing up. Pain. Humiliation. Abuse. Lying and manipulation.
It was horrible.
I was drained and exhausted by the end. So much so that it took genuine effort for me to put the diaries away and quietly sneak back to my suite instead of passing out on the very inviting couch I’d been curled up on.
I was out before my head even hit the pillow, right as I was about to make another false promise to myself about never going back to the library ever again.