Page 8 of Grotesque Love

A flicker of determination ignites within me. Why can’t I remember? Why is everything so fuzzy, like it’s covered in a strange film? Where am I?

Summoning every ounce of strength I have, I clench my fists and push myself until I’m upright. The world spins violently as I rise from the bed, sheets tangled around my legs, and nausea washes over me like raging waves crashing against jagged rocks. Blinking away tears, I focus on the bleakness of my surroundings.

Familiar, but darker somehow. There’s no light peeking through the drapes, and the air is heavy with the stale stench of sweat and something else.

The flowers on the nightstand are dead. Where did they come from? They remind me of a funeral. But whose?

I want to open the curtains. I need to know if it’s day or night. Need to drink in the moon or soak up the sun. I need…something.

I move three paces then wince.

My vision swims, as pain stabs through my head.

I hit the hard floor.

Hands lift me.

Helping?

Soft covers.

But I’m too hot.

Water against my lips. Tastes funny.

Feeble attempts to fight.

Held down.

Tears. Hot and angry.

Hands stroking my hair.

Then darkness once more.

CHAPTER FOUR

ARIANWEN

Today feels…different.

I say day, but I have no concept of time. The heavy drapes are still pulled closed, the room shrouded in shadows with a pale light fighting its way through the cracks like weeds.

Something makes me feel hopeful. Lighter. Like a brand new dawn has risen. Lying still, I slowly scan my body with my mind, feeling for any injuries, aches or pains. When I detect none, I wiggle my toes. The sheet moves. I roll my ankles, stretch my calves by pointing my toes towards the wall and then up to the ceiling.

I draw my ankles up to my bum, my knees rising like mountains until the joints click. I wince at the sound – loud in the silent room – but it doesn’t hurt. It feels good to move.

The last thing I remember is rain…rain and mud. I was drowning. Something else is on the tip of my tongue, another memory poking at the haze of blackness. But when I try to recall it, there’s nothing.

My legs drop, and I use my hands to push myself up on the mattress into a sitting position.

It’s so dark here. The small shafts of light are filled with dust, as if I’ve disturbed the manor from its slumber. It’s heavy. Oppressive. The air feels thick with sickness and a mustiness that makes my chest tighten.

I want to open the window.

I need to breathe.

Determined, I shuffle to the edge of my bed and tentatively place my feet on the cool wooden floor. It smarts a little, the soles of my feet oddly tender, but the pain is bearable. I estimate that it’s about five paces to the window. More if I shuffle and take it easier, but still doable.

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