Page 10 of Carnival

Rose

M y throat is sore, my jaw hurts, and I’m pretty sure it’s only the beginning. My eyes flutter open, blinking rapidly to adjust to the lighting in the room. It’s bright — the lightbulb being as white as they could possibly get.

With a look of confusion, I take a quick glance around the room. Something about the interior is so familiar, but almost like an out-of-body experience. I’ve seen this room somewhere, but I don’t recall if it was on a TV show or if I’ve ever been in it.

It’s a child’s room, a girly one.

Deep purple walls and white furniture with pretty pink flowers drawn on them. The desk has some school supplies, textbooks, notebooks, and pens, and surprise, surprise, they’re all either in purple or pink. Even the sheets are Hello Kitty, only worsening my confusion.

I toss the covers off my body, finding myself in a pair of men’s shorts and an oversized shirt. A sigh of relief slips out when I notice that my underwear is still intact, the same one I had before… well, before I was brought here.

Where the hell am I?

The strangest part of the room is that it has no windows. It has curtains and a painted window, but no real one. Of course, trying to open the door is just as useless, a small groan filling the room when my hand reaches for the knob, twisting and turning, but the door remains closed shut.

“When I get my hands on you, James,’’ I mutter under my breath, continuing to look around the room. My fingertips graze the notebooks on the desk, and all of them are… very old. They don’t have any school material in them, only drawings, sketches, and doodles.

Those were clearly done by a child, but they’re pretty good. As an artist myself, I can tell how much effort went into every single one. The shading of the sketches is done sloppily, but it’s to be expected of a child, and these don’t look half-bad.

I flip through the notebook, my eyes skimming various drawings. Some are more abstract than others, and I can’t help the way my brows crease as I stare at a particular piece, seemingly drawn to it.

The background is shaded in deep grays, with some blacks around. The main part, in the middle, resembles a person. I can’t tell if it’s an adult or a child, but from my perspective, whoever it is, they’re crying. And it’s a cry for help, a desperate one, too.

My heart clenches at the thought of the poor child who drew this. Emotions are all over the page, some reeking of anger and fury, others filled with pain, sorrow, and deeply rooted insecurities that I can’t quite place.

I flip to the front page, the first one in the notebook, and something catches my eye. In the far bottom corner of the page are two small letters that cause me to freeze. Suddenly, chills run down my body, and I feel chilly, despite the previous warmth of the room.

R.A.

My initials.

Immediately, I drop the notebook, taking a step back. This is either some fucked-up joke of his, or this belonged to me. If the notebook was once mine, it’s safe to assume that this whole room was mine.

The more I look through it, the fewer answers I seem to have, but the questions continue to pop into my head.

Nothing personal, no images, no family photos, no diaries, nothing.

It’s clear that this room is a replica of the real one, and the chills that stubbornly coat my body start to worsen, my fingers almost numb from the cold.

I sit back on the bed, mind reeling with thoughts. What is happening? Why am I in this room? Why did James bring me here? And most importantly — why can’t I remember where I’ve seen this room before?

My childhood memories are foggy, at best. The system wasn’t kind to me, and my therapist says that my mind is blocking all the terrible memories to shield me from the trauma. Who knows what exactly I’ve gone through, to the point of completely blocking it out?

I swallow thickly, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to warm up. It doesn’t help even when I tug on the covers, putting them on my body. In fact, it’s only making me more conscious of everything.

Who the hell is James, exactly?

He has layers, thick ones that he wants to show me in pieces until I can form the puzzle.

But I’m not the one to play games, and I hate mind games the most. The confusing feelings toward him are terrible on their own, but this?

This is him caging me in, chaining me to himself because my curiosity, and the need to know what is going on won’t let me stop seeing him until he gives me all the answers.

The winning cards are in his hands, and I hate it.

My eyes snap to the door when I hear keys jiggling. My heart starts beating faster, watching as the knob turns and the door opens. I inhale sharply, not leaving the man out of my sight.

James strolls inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

He’s wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a plain hoodie, and he’s barefoot.

His hair is disheveled, messy, and falling over his face, but there are no emotions behind those dark eyes.

Nothingness, emptiness — that scares me.

I’ve never seen or met anyone so out of touch with their emotions, and it’s terrifying.

He’s carrying a small tray of food, my stomach immediately growling at the sight. The noise is loud, and a blush of embarrassment coats my cheeks. The food looks almost too appealing, and with how hungry I am, I don’t even have the time to think about the fact that he might’ve put something in it.

A low, lazy smirk tugs on the corner of his lips as he approaches me, coming to a stop at the edge of the bed, right in front of me.

My eyes flicker up to meet his, and if I didn’t notice it earlier, I sure as fuck notice it now.

He’s very tall, as in, freakishly tall. He’s about 6’5, and that’s a foot taller than me.

“Good morning, sunshine.’’ The undertone of mockery doesn’t go unnoticed by me, and my brows furrow together. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine,’’ I keep my voice flat. “Where am I?”

“Just… a temporary residence,’’ he shrugs, putting the tray with food next to me, then pulls the chair from the desk closer, sitting in front of me. “Eat. You’re hungry.’’

The sandwich is very thick, with an ungodly amount of cheese — just how I like it. I bite the inside of my cheek, contemplating whether or not to eat, but when my stomach makes the ugly noise again, I give in to the hunger and carefully pick it up in my hands, taking a small bite.

My eyes roll to the back of my head as the taste coats my tongue, my senses going into overdrive. This has to be one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever tasted, and the more I eat, the more I can taste different things he put inside.

“Easy,’’ he says, a hint of teasing in his voice. “It’s all yours.’’

I ignore him, grumbling incoherently as I finish the sandwich, the hunger subsiding significantly, though I could eat a lot more. I wipe the corner of my mouth with my thumb, and James quickly grabs my wrist.

Shock bursts through my body, my eyes holding eye contact as he brings my thumb to his mouth, sucking off the sauce. His eyes hold a different kind of hunger, the one I’m familiar with, and somehow, the same hunger I want to get used to.

My throat bobs as I swallow, pulling my hand back, but the lingering sensations of his touch remain in my mind, making me second-guess everything.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“To test a theory,’’ he leans back in the chair, his legs spread. I have to remind myself not to ogle him and give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered, but it’s getting harder to get my brain and body to cooperate.

“What theory?”

“The theory of how much you remember.’’

“Remember what?” The frown forms on my face again, and his vague responses start pissing me off. “Stop beating around the bush and tell me what’s going on.’’

James leans in, elbows on his knees as he stares right into my eyes, trying to see past the mask of indifference that I’m trying to keep up.

“So you don’t remember,’’ he mumbles, something akin to disappointment in his eyes. It’s gone before I even know if it’s true or a fragment of my imagination, and he distances himself from me.

“You’re really starting to piss me off,’’ I scoff. “Either tell me what I want to know, or I’m leaving.’’

“It’s cute how you seem to think that you have any control of the situation,’’ a deep chuckle rumbles through his chest. “But, to satisfy your curiosity, this room was once yours.’’

I freeze, and when he confirms what I’d previously suspected, I don’t know how to respond. I sit on the bed, hands on my lap, blinking and trying to make sense of the situation. I blow out a deep breath, deciding to question him more.

“When was this my room?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Who knows?”

A small growl of annoyance slips out, my brow twitching. “Stop being vague! What the hell is going on?”

He doesn’t like my tone, apparently, because before I can see it happening, he pushes me down on the bed in a lying position, crawling on top of me and holding my chin tightly. His lips brush against mine, but this is far from a romantic encounter. The man’s pissed, body trembling with anger.

“Don’t ask questions you can’t handle the answer to,’’ he murmurs, voice low and threatening. “I won’t give you the satisfaction of having all the answers laid out before you. If you want to know, you’ll have to work for them, hellion.’’

I clench my teeth together, hands fisting next to my body. “No.’’

He lifts a brow, momentarily shocked, or perhaps confused?

“No?”

“No,’’ I repeat.

A deep laugh reverberates in the room, his body heat making my anger impossible to keep, though I put on a front, not wanting him to see how the laughing has caught me off guard.

“So defiant,’’ he chuckles. “It’s adorable, really. I’ll have so much fun fucking the defiance out of you.’’

His head sinks low, his lips grazing the crook of my neck, yet not quite giving me the contact I’m craving.

Teasingly, he caresses my side over the oversized shirt, his touch surprisingly gentle.

My body trembles, anticipation builds in the pit of my stomach, and all rationality flies out of the window the moment his lips start kissing my neck.

My eyes close, and even in the dark abyss, I can see those dark eyes. He’s lurking, he’s haunting, and he’s claiming his prey.

“So sweet,’’ he bites down, harshly, a small scream slipping from my lips. It’s painful, but it still gets the arousal out of me, my thighs clenching together as if to try and stop the wetness between my legs.

My hands reach up to grip his forearms, and he groans, kissing my neck. He leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses all over, switching between sucking on my flesh and leaving marks and licking to soothe the ache.

“James,’’ I whisper, my voice needy and trembling.

“My name sounds so sweet on your lips.’’ He sinks his teeth into my flesh, roughly, and I’m seeing stars. The pain and pleasure morph together, and it’s enough to create bubbles of excitement in me.

“But,’’ he pauses, lifting his head to look at me, and my eyes open. “Only good girls deserve rewards, and you weren’t a good girl, were you, hellion?”

James pulls off me, standing up and adjusting the bulge in his sweats. A sigh of disappointment comes from me, and he smirks. He grabs my arms and pulls me back into a sitting position, then returns to sit on the chair.

“Now, since you’ve been curious, I’ll indulge and answer three questions and three questions only. Choose wisely.’’