Page 13 of Tainted Serenity

“Truth.”

“Tell us your deepest thoughts about Naya. Don’t leave out any details.”

All eyes bore into mine, their attention making unease settle in me as I keep my gaze averted, trying not to meet Jaqueline’s eyes. I already know what she’s going to say about me.

“She’s a true bitch,” she states, trying to get me to meet her eyes. “Doesn’t care about anyone but herself. A selfish fucker who has the worst qualities any human could possibly have. I once had a boyfriend whom she stole from me, tore away from me, and manipulated into loving her.”

She fakes a sniffle, earning a gasp from one of the remaining women inside the room. The tear-stained woman opposite me gives me a sly smile while completely ignoring Jaqueline. I cannot help but clench my fists as my jaw tenses, trying to control the rage overwhelming me. Nothing of what she says bothers me because I know it isn’t true, but the deep anger comes from her suggesting Grey is an object. He’s not fucking something one can steal; he has his own life and feelings, and this is precisely why no one likes that bitch.

“Good. Very good.” Arthur smiles to himself while clapping his hands, turning his gaze to me with a satisfied expression, as if his main goal was to get me annoyed.

“Naya, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Have you ever killed someone you loved? Give us all the gory details.” He gives me a knowing smile, causing curiosity to charge the atmosphere inside the room as everyone waits for the reply.

There is no way out but to give them the answer, even though my heart pounds with the daunting truth—a gamble with my sanity and secrets that might very well get me locked up in a prison cell. He knows the answer; he just wants me to admit it out loud and torture my inner mind.

I swallow molten lava before meeting his eyes. “Yes, my mother. When I was seventeen years old.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air.

“And how did you end up here?” He smugly asks.

“You said one truth. I already answered,” I challenge him, and he narrows his eyes at me. It’s taking all my strength to ignore the spreading pain through my abdomen and a cold sweat making the room spin as I try to keep focus.

“Then I will tell you. Your mother sold you to Grimhill Manor, and Emilio Ricci—who deals in the same organization—contacted my brother. You see, it’s all a game you will never escape. Those patients at Dankworth Institute who have nothing left to lose go through the initiation and then to the dollhouse.” He looks between Jaqueline and me. “You two fit into those categories. Beautiful dolls, perfect for my collection.”

He walks up to the blonde woman beside Iris’s lifeless body, making her visibly swallow as he traces her cheek. There’s a sense of recognition in his eyes as he stares at the woman as if they have known each other before, but the expression is quickly scolded.

“I dare you to go up to the attic and grab the jewelry box.” He suddenly turns around, throwing the dare at me, making my eyebrows raise.

I know I cannot disobey him, so when he unties the belt around me and helps me stand up, I am forced toward a door in the corner of the room on unsteady legs. An unnatural pain rears through my wound as I fight my way up the stairs, apprehension taking over as I reach the attic above.

It’s a dark place, cramped, and leaves room for only one person. What makes me take a step back is the many dolls littering the floor, all antique and weathered, as if they have existed here for years upon years with dust coating them. There is no window up here, only a broken lantern that reflects some light upon the space.

I’m not sure where the jewelry box is that he talked about, and I step further into the attic. The air is duller up here, making it harder to breathe, and all the layers of dust coating the surfaces make my nose itchy. The floorboards creak underneath my feet as I approach a box lying beside a few dolls on the floor. With careful movements, I grab the many photographs gathered in it.

In the first picture is a magnificent building whose architecture is of the Gothic type, surrounded by a beautiful forest despite the black and white colors. In front of the house stands an old man approaching his hundredth year, leaning on a cane with a hat on his head looking into the camera. Next to the older man stands a younger man, whose arm is thrown around the older one’s shoulders. He’s smiling a hideous smile at the camera, his eyes give off the same kind of glint I can see now. A picture of Arthur Grimhill, nineteen-sixty-eight. My heart hammers as I realize it appears to be the year of the inauguration of the dollhouse.

I immediately drop the photo and let it fall back into the box before picking up the next one. Yet another picture of Arthur Grimhill, taken year nineteen-seventy-five, with a petite woman standing to the side of the frame, her gaze directed elsewhere. Her dirty blonde hair is neatly pulled into a tight knot, and she looks well-kept. The realization that Arthur has owned this house ever since fills me with a sense of unease, as I understand how many people have suffered in the years before me.

I inspect the third photograph in the collection, revealing Arthur standing in a garden. He is dressed in a sharp suit, his hair slicked back, and his back in a straight posture. A woman stands beside him, Arthur’s fingers digging into her dress as he clutches her hips with a tight grip, exuding an air of dominance over her.

She is reminiscent of the woman in the photograph from ninety-seventy-five, appearing a few years older. Her dirty blonde hair is swept up in a tight knot in this photograph, too, and she stands rigidly while attempting to plaster on a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. I detect a profound sense of sorrow and pain in her gaze as she looks into the camera, her stance betraying palpable discomfort.

What surprises me the most is the noticeable rounding of her belly as they both stand slightly to the side, leaving no doubt that she’s pregnant in this photograph.

A burning question persists in my mind, causing me to drop the photo as if it has scorched my fingers. Does Arthur Grimhill have a child?

As the photo drops to the floor, I notice the number‘1995’on the back of it, deepening the mystery.

I turn my attention toward the remaining photographs in the collection, depicting young adults surrounded by the same antique dolls scattered on the floor before me, they are all dressed the same in vintage clothes and corsets.Nineteen-ninety-eight.

Then, there’s another photo of a different group of people, taken in the same place and dated two-thousand-ten.

There is a strong indication that the people in these photos have since died, as the group of people seems to change every few years. I have to swallow down the bile rising in my throat as I stumble back, trying to breathe properly through the nausea and pain skittering over me.

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