Page 4 of Beautiful Nightmare
The roaring engine stops, chirping birds taking over, and the passenger door slowly opens. I watch, glaring toward the small boy who hops out. His hair is bright white, his face is scowled, and his body is stiff; the silk pajamas he is wearing are decorated in dry blood along with his house slippers. The boy’s eyes shift, examining his new surroundings. It’sobvious he isn’t from here from the amount of discomfort radiating from him.
Agatha comes to stand next to him, wearing her classic brown dress. She bends down, whispers in his ear, and his eyes dart forward, focusing on the Manor. It’s a two-story square monstrosity, with a dark wooden wraparound porch, black doors, and window trim, a mismatch of tarnished red and white brick siding, and slate roof tiles. Bright green ivy climbs its walls, the only bit of light and joy this place offers, besides the blood-red bathroom, which I have taken a liking to.
An iron fence surrounds the property with a matching gate decorated with beautiful, intricate cobwebs from the peaceful spiders who call it home. A wooden sign with white script staked in the lawn before it says,Agatha Manor. On windy nights the unoiled hinges creak, haunting you with the shadows of the tree branches dancing against my bedroom wall.
Agatha Manor is a place where the unusual children are summoned when they have been abandoned or left without parents or guardians. It doesn’t matter how the children end up in such predicaments; Agatha senses you are alone with no likelihoodof an adult returning, and she comes to fetch you.
It’s how I ended up here.
And I wish I wasn’t. Since arriving, my body has been numb, and my mind empty with no life left in my eyes.
The manor here in Hollows Grove isn’t the only one like it. More exists, but it all depends on who has space for us at the time.
The gate closes and the latch clicks, bringing my attention back to the boy.
Agatha’s hand rests on the middle of his back, his body stiff as his brown slip-on house shoes shuffle against the stone walkway. Mechanically his knees rise with each step up the porch, and not once does he look over to me. Wandering eyes are startled by his hand; an XO with a deranged smile tattoo is inked on it. I hold in my shock, keeping my face unbothered.
Because, like me, he is now dead inside too.
The sun has longsince set; the loud cowbell has called me to dinner, but on my swing is where I remain still. I have not seen the boy again.
“Royce, bath and bed. Now!” Agatha’s one-cigarette-too-many voice punctures my ears. Looking over, I see her head sticking out of her bedroom window. My eyes roll, which thankfully she doesn’t catch, as I hop off the swing and rush inside.
I learned after the first time to never play with her because she doesn’t find the antics of children funny. She pulled me out of the bath, naked and dripping with water, to deliver ten of the most painful lashings on my bottom. Each one stung more than the last, and every time I winced, she would hit me harder; the crack of the leather against my skin would get louder. Many lessons were learned.
Dim lights greet me as I walk inside; the floorboards creak under my feet as I race up the stairs, taking two at a time. Since I missed dinner, I must wait until tomorrow’s breakfast to eat, something that doesn’t faze me, as I haven’t been hungry in sixty-six weeks.
Reaching the top, I turn toward my bathroom when I’m startled, my body crashing intohis, but he doesn’t move, completely unaffected.
Stumbling backward, I catch my balance before falling.
“Why is your hair like that?” his prepubescent voice says.
My face contorts, confused by his question, before responding in a hushed whisper, “Because I was born this way?”
Shrugging his shoulders, he seems satisfied with my response.
I watch his eyes, trying to take a read on him. The boy blinks, and his irises turn white momentarily before returning to their natural brown state. At the same time, I hear soft whispers behind me. Agatha. He looks up, focusing on Agatha, and walks past me, heading toward her.
“Royce, this is Prince, our new guest.”
I don’t turn around or acknowledge her words. The air seems uneasy, and all I want to do is escape it.
Building up courage, my bare feet move, and I rush to the bathroom. She doesn’t stop me, and my shoulders slump in relief. As I reach my destination, I flick on the light and hurry to close the thick wooden door behind me.
Red tiles welcome me, from the floor to the walls and ceiling. The countertop is black with matching cabinets and fixtures. Frosted glass lanterns hang from the wall, and as I turn to face the mirror, whichis framed in black, my purple eyes look back at me, and the corner of my lip hitches, just like my mom's. And my hair, which is perfectly parted down the middle, is a combination of both my moms, half black and the other half white.
I’m always reminded of them; there is no escaping it. And I fucking hate it!
Screaming, my fist clenches, and my knuckles connect with the cold glass.
It cracks, shattering into multiple jagged shards and falling around me. With a heavy breath, I reach for one and make the first cut of the day. This one is farther above my exposed arm, on untouched skin. Pushing the sharp end into my flesh and sliding it slowly, one end to the other, droplets of blood follow, running down my pale skin. I smile, bringing my tongue to it, and lick the crimson. Its metallic flavor erupts on my taste buds, and my eyes close in sweet ecstasy.
This is what it feels like to live.
4
ROYCE