Page 3 of Beautiful Nightmare
CURRENT DAY: MID 90S - HOLLOWS GROVE, PA
Ice.
Chills surround me.
The oval mirror on my vanity frosts before my purple eyes as the tip of my nose turns ice cold. Goosebumps rise on my pale white skin, and my long black nails tap against the gold tabletop as I wait for their next move. A spirit is here.
Agatha Manor has seen life and death, possessions, and sad fucking stories. The house soaks in the energy that was left behind, and I have yet to be any of those things, and all happiness was sucked out of me the moment I arrived all those years ago. The house has never had an opportunity to take anything from me.
Tightness wraps around my bare shoulders. I sittall on the upholstered stool, welcoming the embrace in my black silk slip dress. I lean back, but as I do, they leave. The room warms, chills are gone, and the mirror now reveals me, and me alone.
Closing my eyes, I can feel my long lashes tickling my cheeks. “Fuck,” hisses out from between my black-painted lips. For once I wish they would just show me who they are, tell me what they want from me, and let me be with them.
I make no effort to hide myself, arms exposed with white ridges. I own my shit.
Softly, I open my eyes, blinking rapidly a few times, then I close my feelings back off one more time. Behind my parted hair of white and black strands stands the man who brings me the most misery, Prince Prescott. His white blond hair and dead eyes look back at me through the mirror. He has two fucking teardrop tattoos under the left eye, bragging about what he did to end up here, while wearing black suit pants and shoes with a white dress shirt open, exposing his bare chest.
I hate him.
What his parents did was horrific, wrong, and inhumane. And he matched that, checkmate, well played, but I still think the teardrop is fucking ridiculous.
“They will never speak to you.” His voice is deep and monotone.
Ignoring his tormenting comment, I reach for my perfume bottle that once belonged to my mother, squeeze the pump, and allow the beautiful notes of warm vanilla, orchid, and smoky earth mist over my neck. The scent my mother once wore is no more, because in a fit of rage years ago I smashed the last bottle and immediately regretted it. Since then I have spent sleepless nights and long days trying to replicate it, and this is the closest I’ve come, but it’s still not quite right.
“And it’s notthem.” He makes it hurt even more than my brain. I realistically know it can’t be; they didn’t die here, but a part of me always wishes it could be.
My face remains stone, not feeding into his bait.
Rising from my ottoman, I slip my black tattoo choker on, which completes the outfit, and I am ready to go. My feet padding against the hardwood, I act as if Prince is not standing in my doorway and go to walk past him. His strong hand reaches out, gripping me in the same spot as the choker. Internally, I startle, but externally I give him nothing.
“Take that off,” he demands, and I smize, pleased with myself, though I don’t respond. My back isslammed against the door, the wind nearly knocked out of me from the force, and Prince squeezes harder now, not allowing me to cough or catch my breath.
With flared nostrils, my foster brother leans closer, and I can feel his warmth. “My hand is the only thing that goes around your neck. You fucking know that.” So the story goes, in his own fucking delusions. I stare up at his six-foot-plus frame in defiance, because he doesn’t own me.
Prince’s lips tickle my ear. “I could do anything I want to you, right now, and you could never stop me.” He tries to manipulate me, but I know he can’t anymore, and I don’t share that information. I’ll let him feel like a man with big dick energy if it gets me out of here quicker.
Footsteps echo as they make their way up the stairs, and Prince jumps back, letting me go. Agatha is coming, our housemother. If there is one person he listens to and obeys, it’s her. I have yet to be able to figure out why, but that curiosity has never faded.
“You best run off now; don’t want your mommy getting mad at you,” I taunt in return, knowing he will be unable to retaliate. Prince scoffs, turning on his heel, and storms off down the hall. The walls shake as his door slams; Agatha peeks into my room.
“I’m going to the carnival,” I inform her andbrush past her tall frame and plain brown garb. When I say it, I am not looking for permission, as I am of age now and not obligated to tell her anything. I do it out of courtesy. Even if she doesn’t deserve it.
“Eventually, darling, you will need to stop being pissed off at the world. They are dead. You are alive. That is your reality and has been for over a decade. Accept it.” Smug cunt.
My lungs want to burst with rage and hate, scream until my own eardrums burst, and the mirrors crack. Then push her face into the shards, scarring her face to look like my arms. To have her feel what pain and loss is like and to know the hurt I feel every fucking day.
Instead, I pass her with my chin held high and bite my tongue.
My misery will not be her victory; it will only be mine.
3
ROYCE
1980S - HOLLOWS GROVE, PA
Playing in the front yard of Agatha Manor, alone, I see a shiny black station wagon with tinted windows pull up. My bare feet hit the ground, sliding against the hard earth as I try to stop the swing. It’s been sixty-six weeks since I first arrived, and for each day of each week, I have sat upon this swing, from dusk till dawn, trying to manifesttheirreturn to me.