Page 21 of Tainted Serenity

I force my back to be straight, holding my chin high, and not dare to slip out of this newfound confidence. His wrinkled hand rises to my cheek and brushes away a strand of hair that has fallen in front of my eyes. Keeping my body still is almost impossible, all while concealing the desperation that begs me to breathe deeply.

A kind of rage bubbles up within me, making my nostrils flare. I hate him with every fiber of my being.

One day, I will make him suffer, just like I made my mother suffer. I cannot wait until I can feel his sweet blood underneath my fingers, watching the life drain from his soulless eyes. until he transfers over to the gates of hell.

But that day is not today.

“Are you done?” Arthur’s voice is low as he speaks, directing his question to the maid, who has been slowly torturing me for the last hour.

“Yes, master.”

I continue to observe her in the mirror as she talks to Arthur, her shoulders hunched forward while her head is tilted down in submission. Never once does she meet his eyes. He walks up to her before patting her head slowly, a satisfied grin plastered on his thin lips.

“Good.”

In a harsh grip, Arthur pulls me out of the dressing room by the arm. With the fast pace in which he moves forward, my feet drag across the floor while I try to keep up.

The corridor we walk through is full of desolation, emptiness bringing nothing but a sense of dread as we pass by the walls void of any paintings. Eventually, we arrive at a large wooden door, imposing and frightening, with no idea of what is to come on the other side, and my steps falter.

Arthur does not hesitate before pushing open the door, sliding open with a loud creak, and the sight on the other side causes me to momentarily freeze. It’s a room full of unfamiliar faces, silence screaming loud in my ears as I feel them all turning to look at me.

The room I’m in takes my breath away, but not in a suffocating way that has me choking. It’s magnificent, large, and airy, but at the same time beautiful and personal. With widened eyes full of disbelief, I search the room while ignoring everyone else, noticing the light pink walls that lean toward the white side. Words simply cannot do the room justice.

Arthur pushes me into the room, my feet stumbling as I enter, coming to a standstill in front of the expansive window nearby. Large windows stretch from the roof to the floor, dominating the walls with their enormity.

Despite trying to ignore all the people inside the room, I still feel their eyes while observing me as if I’m the enemy. Maybe I am to them.

White, flowery-laced curtains adorn the windows on both sides, giving a feminine vibe with crystal chandeliers on the ceiling. With windows that allow the passage of sunlight into the dining room, the room is filled with the vibrant hues of the midday sun. But that’s not what shocks me the most, it’s all the amounts of tables that are scattered around the room but at the same time look like they’re neatly arranged. All round tables host six chairs each, all neatly set with light pink cloth and flower bouquets in the middle.

Everything looks precisely like those small dollhouses that children usually play with, and my heart sinks.

The size of the room could host hundreds of people, and right now, all of the twenty tables are occupied with six women at each.

Arthur pushes me toward the tables, and I try to remain on steady legs while taking in all the women. They’re equally as dressed up as I, none of them daring to meet Arthur’s gaze. Despite that, I still notice the eagerness in their expressions as they take me in.

We arrive at one of the tables toward the center of the room, right under one of the crystal chandeliers on the ceiling that casts the room in a beautiful glow, along with the daylight from outside. The whole room looks so lovely, but I know it’s just an illusion that masks all the lies and broken promises this place holds.

All beautiful things are the most shattered inside, leaving no room for anything good.

Silence engulfs the room as I try not to fiddle with my hands, like a dense fog settling over us and muffling even the dullest sound.

It isn’t until long that Arthur forces me to sit down on the only empty chair in the room, along with five other females appearing to be dressed-up dolls, precisely like I. As I swallow what feels like molten lava, memories of what happened a few days ago seem to scorch my mind. Everyone but me and another woman survived after playing a game of truth or dare.

And Jaqueline. She’s dead.

Now, the surviving woman sits opposite me again at the table, and her eyes briefly meet mine. They’re not glazed with tears; instead, they are more visible through the richer ebony color, which appears darker under her black eyelashes. Her high cheekbones are subtly defined by makeup, and the delicate bow of her lip is adorned with pink lipstick, adding a touch of refined elegance to her features. There’s an uncanny familiarity surrounding her, as if I have seen her from before the game, or someone like that, but I cannot put my finger on it. Her gaze quickly averts, and she hides her face behind her cascade of golden, curly hair. None of the other women dare look at me; their gazes are drawn toward their laps. I take a moment to study them, noticing that the golden-haired survivor has gotten a fresh, jagged scar that slashes across her upper arm.

Arthur must have hurt her, which makes a sickening nausea churn my stomach.

A clink of glass breaks the silence, and I lift my gaze to look around, prompting Arthur’s grip on my shoulder to tighten, though I ignore the pain and meet the gaze of an older woman. She stands at the front of the room with a spoon, which she clicks against the glass, catching everyone’s attention. There is an unsettling quality about her that makes me want to back away from creeping chills; she exudes an aura that is far from warm or friendly, hinting at something maliceful.

The tight knot in her gray-blonde hair highlights her face, making the makeup stand out with rosy cheeks visible in the light. She stands there with her back straight, authority radiating off her as she prompts everyone look at to her.

As Arthur gives my shoulder one last firm squeeze, he walks up to the woman in front. In the corner of my eye, I see the golden-haired survivor look up at Arthur and the woman before she quickly lowers her gaze in submission.

After lowering herself for his command, the older woman curtsies gracefully before Arthur and allows him to kiss her hand. When she hooks her arm with his, I steal a glimpse of a ring adorning her ring finger, sending a shiver of realization through me.

She must be the wife in the photographs I found in the attic; the woman who had been carrying that child. What I cannot understand is where that child now is, as it must have been at least twenty-eight years since, leaving a gap in my mind, like a puzzle of the stories that beg to be resolved.

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