Page 21 of Fallen Petal

But it’s not today’s memory that does this to me. At first, I thought it was, because it would only make sense. But when heat is finally joined by light, there’s a different image revealing itself. It’s me, on top of him. I’m burning, feeling droplets of sweat run down my spine as I try to get closer.

Have we done this before? Before I woke up in this house, before I became his ignorant prisoner?

Is that why I chose to be here? Because I wanted to be with him? Because I wanted to be as intimate with him as two people can be?

“Jayson. Jayson. Jayson.”

I repeat his name in a rhythm faster than my own breath, turning it into a breathless chant with a voice so distorted that it resembles the hissing of a snake more than a human voice. And with every breath, the image clears, teasing me with its vagueness while letting me feel the exact same way I must have felt then. I can only see shadows, bodies moving close to each other, but the way it feels...

I wake with a start, almost falling off the bench when an abrupt sound tears me back to reality. My eyes fly open as I turn to the door, still breathing heavily when my gaze meets hers. The black-haired girl is standing about five feet away from me, carrying a tray and staring at me through wide eyes.

Shame paints a deep red color on my cheeks and out of sheer awkwardness, I hurry to fix my gown, straightening the fabric across my legs as if I was trying to wipe away what just happened. She can’t have been here for long, but she entered the room without me noticing, giving her at least a short glance at what I was doing.

Fantasizing. Lusting. I can still feel the desire between my legs, and even though I know she can’t see it, I feel as if the truth of it is written right across my forehead.

“I’m sorry,” she says, only worsening my predicament. Because she feels there’s something for her to apologize for.

I try to ignore my embarrassment and focus on something else: the fact that she spoke.

“Can we talk?” I ask, watching as she walks over to the table, placing the tray next to the white rose, as she always does.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“But you—”

“You need to eat,” she cuts me off, fixating me through narrow eyes. Her tense expression is sending a silent warning for me to shut up.

He’s listening. That’s why.

“Can he hear us?” I ask in a whisper. “Can he see us right now?”

She doesn’t give me a verbal response this time, but the way her eyes scurry to the door and back to me is enough of an answer.

He’s watching.