This dude is really getting on my nerves.
I want to accept the pills, but I can hear his voice in the back of my mind, expecting something in return.
“Take your pills and shove them up your ass.”
My words are meant to make him back off, but he does neither what I want him to do. Instead, he gives me an even wider grin, and a laugh erupts from his mouth, which only serves to raise my ire. His words contain a sharp, tongue-in-cheek sarcasm that cannot be missed.
“Sure thing, love,” he winks at me before dropping off the pills on my desk and walking out, closing the door behind him.
My gaze is unwaveringly fixed on the door as I struggle to comprehend the peculiar man who just left. But the real question is why my body so instinctively drew to his, my heart beating in time with his, my breath following the same rhythm.
Chapter 8
Naya
Neither can I seenor hear anything, and everything has slowly faded into a distant blur as I see a tiny body inside an all too confined space. I am looking at a younger version of myself, a seven-year-old girl who is an exact replica of what I was like when I was that age, and I know it’s me from a long time ago. The sight brings tears to my eyes, and I am flooded with all the feelings I felt back then. When I watch my seven-year-old self huddled against the wall with her knees up to her chin, I can barely move my own arms or legs. Her plight is similar to mine. I feel the walls of my mind closing in, a crushing weight of claustrophobia that makes me desperately want to escape this dream.
A nightmare.
I can feel her pain and anxiety rumbling through her veins because I am her. Everything hurts, but what hurts the most is the shooting pain in my jaw, making it impossible for me to tilt my head or even open my mouth. A fresh, slick, and unavoidable smell blankets me as I stand in a puddle of liquid, ruining the shoes I’m wearing. A shudder of revulsion runs through me as my entire body fills with pure disgust. What is worse is the sight of my tiny self with red-rimmed eyes from tears that refuse to stop falling.
As I go back and forth between my seven-year-old and twenty-year-old perspectives, I feel as if my emotions are spinning out of control. My mind turns awry, and I find myself trapped inside the wardrobe rather than outside as I was a few seconds ago.
An enchanting melody is heard through the doors, a percussive piano tone that combines sadness and happiness. A neutral tone, yet it is not, for all it does is cause me a bone-rattling feeling. The tiny wardrobe I have been forced inside is filled with dark shadows that seem to move in the still air, making breathing difficult and causing my tears to fall faster.
It is not just the melody that seeps through the doors; the chilling darkness carries the faint smell of death as well, and the metallic liquid from outside the wardrobe coats my skin, quickly drying to become crusty upon me.
Although it is not from me.
Blood gathers between the cracks in the cramped space under the wardrobe doors, soaking my skirt and clambering on my body. I have no control over my actions as I am trapped, and no matter how much I try, I cannot regain it. Tears flush my cheeks, and my fingers quiver with emotion. I am shaking and trying to force the scream out of my throat, and although nothing comes out, I am left in utter despair. All I can do is sit here, wishing the blood could disappear, wishing someone could save me.
No one ever will.
I am the only person who can save me, the only one who cares about me. But my small body is too weak to force the wardrobe doors open, and so I am abandoned here.
Suddenly, I’m forced inside my current body outside, and I hear my younger self whimpering behind the closed wardrobe doors, making my heart break thousands of times over. The piano melody continues to play an enchanting melody that leaves me infatuated. In front of the wardrobe doors is a middle-aged male, the one who is making it impossible to open the doors because of his body weight. His entire being is cut open, with his wounds open plainly for the world to see. The blood leaves the arteries it belongs to, and the room is covered in that crimson liquid. One of the walls has handprints smeared over it, along with footsteps, as if someone tried to escape before being tackled to the ground.
The smell of rot and decay is overwhelming in this room, and I am left with no choice but to cover my nose with my shirt. A searing pain spreads through my shoulder, and it’s not until I try to reach for the body to wake him up that I feel the way it’s dislodged from its socket.
“Shut your mouth, filthy devil child!” An angry voice booms behind me, and the piano stops abruptly.
A split second of fear passes through me as I think the person playing the music has noticed me standing there. However, the woman sitting there is glaring at the wardrobe doors with disdain. Her hair is a disheveled combination of well-bleached blonde, brown roots and a few premature grays emerging from the chaos. Looking at her for more than a fleeting moment is too much, and the fear that was once inside me has been replaced with a feeling of dread, causing me to hunch over and try to make myself invisible in case she notices me.
I’m transfixed by the figure on the floor, desperately searching for some hint of who he is, but his face is a blur, and I understand that I’m not supposed to know who he is. A multitude of vicious carvings can be seen on his body, appearing as if someone tried to write something on him, but failed miserably, and then gave up and let him bleed to death.
Because I realize he is dead when I see his pale body. He has lost too much blood, and the woman behind me laughs cruelly.
Although the little girl inside my soul hesitates, I face the piano.
The first thing I see is that the piano is made of mahogany wood, which looks older than the woman does. It has cracks here and there, and looks like a blow could send the whole instrument crashing to the floor in several pieces. I can only imagine the horrible noise that would be made when the piano keys were struck together, ringing worse and louder than a church bell.
It’s not just the condition of the piano that catches my eye despite the chaos around me; it’s the color, too. A crimson red mixed with the blackness, and its droplets are perfectly round, falling slowly, protecting the softness of the cottony carpet from destruction.
Then, I realize that the blood isn’t coming from the piano, but rather from the hand of the woman sitting there.
The knife on top of the piano is also bloody, as are her hands.
Terror mounts on my every breath until it feels like the woman is stabbing and twisting the knife inside of me instead, and I stumble backward from the sudden imaginable pain in my chest. The emotions inside my twenty-year-old self mix with the heartbreak of the seven-year-old me because she knows someone is lying outside of the wardrobe she’s in.
