Page 41 of Twisted Love

I try to lie down, to sleep, but it’s impossible. The day replays in my mind. I roll onto my side, staring at the faint patterns of light on the ceiling, and decide I can’t just lie here. I need something to occupy my mind. I slip outside and the house is quiet and still.

The library feels like a safe haven as I step inside, the scent of old books and polished wood a balm to my frayed nerves. I run my fingers along the leather spines until I touch a 1987 first-edition European copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. My finger stops and I smile slowly. “Wow,” I marvel. I pull it out and carefully open it. The old pages smell of ashes.

To my friend, Hommy-beg, the dedication reads and above it is Bram Stoker’s signature.

I shake my head in wonder. “He did it. He got himself the signed first-edition.” I settle into a chair, switch on the table lamp, and start reading. How strange, but the old book is like a magic cloak pulled over me. I read for hours and when I finish, I creep upstairs and my laptop waiting is like an old friend.

The screen glows to life, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I begin to write. The words pour out of me—a story of a woman trapped in a castle with a man who loathes her, their lives tangled in a web of hatred and longing. It feels cathartic, giving shape to the emotions I can’t express aloud.

When I finally pause for a break, the light streaming in through the window has shifted to a soft amber, painting the walls in the hues of a late autumn gold morning. I had not realized how much time has slipped away. The gardens outside catch my eye, vibrant and serene, their beauty made richer by the new light. A gentle breeze stirs the trees, their leaves shimmering. It’s the kind of gentle morning that beckons for reflection, for escape.

I close the laptop, stretching as I stand. I grab a cardigan from the back of the chair and drape it over my shoulders. Its soft fabric will be a comforting shield against the crisp morning air.

Stepping outside, I let the coolness envelop me. The compound is breathtaking in this light, the kind of beauty that feels almost surreal. The manicured paths wind through beds of late-blooming roses whose rich colors seem to drink in the morning sun. The lake in the distance glistens like liquid gold, its surface rippling gently as soft breezes skim across it. I walk toward it savoring the peace this place seems to offer despite my difficult situation.

The scent of roses wafts through the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the damp soil. I trail my fingers along the tops of the hedges, the leaves cool and dewy against my skin. The property stretches endlessly, each corner revealing some new piece of its charm—a small wooden bench nestled beneath a willow tree, a stone fountain with water that sparkles like diamonds in the first rays of sunlight.

I pause near the lake, the chill of the morning seeping through the thin fabric of my cardigan. The water reflects the sky above. It’s stunning, a moment of perfect stillness.

Sooner or later, you will leave this place.

The thought rises unbidden, clear and certain. This life, this mansion, this game—it’s all temporary. It has to be. I can’t imagine spending my days in a world where beauty hides cruelty and every gift feels like a shackle. But for now, I walk, soaking in the fragile serenity.

The path leads me towards a small gazebo overlooking the lake. I sit down on its stone bench. The world around me is so quiet, so calm, so peaceful until I spot the tree at the edge of the lake.

It stands tall and weathered, its roots twisting into the earth like the veins of some ancient creature. There’s something about it, something achingly familiar. Then I remember.

It isthetree.

Memories come flooding back. Earl and I, years ago, sneaking across the tall walls that bordered this estate. The air had been warm, heavy with the scent of summer blooms, and the laughter from the party had drifted to us like forbidden music. We’d climbed this tree, our hands brushing against rough bark as we found a perch high enough to spy on the glittering world below.

Charles’s garden party. His house. His world.

Earl didn’t want to come here, but I had talked him into it. ‘Please,’ I begged. ‘I just want to see how the other half live. No one will see us. We’ll just climb into one of the trees, spy on them and leave. No one will know.’

He could never say no to me, and even though it would mean a terrible humiliation for him if he had been caught on Charles’s grounds, he came with me.

My chest tightens as the details come rushing back.

The dazzling lights strung across the lawn, the elegant music, the finely dressed guests drinking champagne and fluttering like butterflies from one group to another. While Earl muttered about their empty grandeur, I remember laughing, the kind of laugh that makes you feel invincible, as if the world could never touch me so long as we were together. I agreed with him. Their world was indeed meaningless.

Before I can even arrange the idea, my legs are already moving toward the tree. My hands tremble as they reach for the lowest branch. The bark scrapes against my palm, rough and unyielding, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I need to find something. It’s proof. Proof of who we used to be because, at that moment, I’m unconvinced we ever had a relationship or I called him the love of my life.

The climb is awkward and graceless, my movements hindered by my sandals. My foot slips once, and a gasp escapes me as the bark scrapes against my shin. It stings, but I press on. The branches groan under my weight, but I don’t care.

My hands grope along the trunk, searching. We left our mark. A carving, something to prove we were here. I reach higher, my fingers brushing frantically against rough edges, searching and searching around the place where we had been perched on, our bodies touching.

I find nothing.

The tears come before I can stop them. Hot and unrelenting, they blur my vision as I clutch the tree, my forehead resting against the bark. “Why can’t I find it?” I whisper to no one, my voice breaking. “Why isn’t it here?”

The tears fall freely, each one carrying all my frustrations, my sense of helplessness, and my grief for a version of myself that was lost long ago. For a while, the world is a silent witness to my quiet sobs among the gently rustling of leaves.

Then a harsh voice cuts suddenly through the stillness, furious and cold.

“What the hell are you doing up there? Are you trying to break your neck?”

My heart lurches. Startled, I look down and find Earl standing beneath the tree, his arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on me with a mixture of anger and something I can’t quite place. The sight of him, standing there like an avenging god, sends a shiver down my spine.

---