Page 9

Scarlett

T he wind tugs at the hem of my thick wool coat, the salty air filling my lungs with each breath I take.

The beach is completely deserted, not that I expected otherwise. The only sounds are the distant cries of the gulls and the rhythmic crash of the waves against the shore.

It’s peaceful here, a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of the mansion.

For a little while I just sit there in the dunes, breathing in air that feels lighter and far less oppressive than what circulates in that house.

My hands dig into the sand. I pull out a stone, tossing it angrily into the water.

None of this makes sense.

Not my illness. Not my confusion. Not my memory loss.

Even my anger is wrong.

I’m not an angry person, I’m not an emotional person.

At least, I wasn’t.

I push back the sleeves of my coat, staring at the scars on my arms, and will myself to remember. It doesn’t have to be all of it. It just has to be something. One puzzle piece. One thing that I can use to draw out the rest.

But all I see is darkness. Heaviness. And fear.

That’s what I feel. What keeps coming every time I try.

That same creepy tune repeats in my head again. About gardens and shadows and I don’t know what, but somehow, I know those words. I feel like I’ve sung them. Like it’s a riddle I can’t figure out.

With frustration I get up and walk along the water’s edge. The coolness of the wet sand seeps through my flimsy shoes. The confusion that has been my constant companion seems to lessen here, where the land meets the sea, as if the water has the power to wash away the fog that shrouds my mind.

But clarity is a double-edged sword.

And with it comes the realization of how precarious my situation truly is.

I am all but a prisoner in this grand estate, surrounded by people who claim to care for me while I’m certain they’re orchestrating my downfall. But why? What reason would they have to do such a thing? To smile in my face and plan my destruction as soon as my back is turned?

What awful thing could I have possibly done to deserve such a fate?

I can’t shake the feeling that there is more to this story, that the truth is something I need to understand, and it’s hidden behind the veil of my fragmented memories.

Memories that are taking far too fucking long to come back to me.

I turn my attention to the causeway, the narrow strip of land that connects this island to the mainland.

From what I’ve observed, the tide goes out twice a day – long enough for supplies and things to be brought in.

My dear husband and father-in-law don’t bother travelling by road, they prefer the use of the helipad.

But then, when the weather is bad, such travel is near impossible.

Right now, a storm is brewing. I can see it on the horizon. It means by nightfall I’ll be more trapped than ever. I won’t be allowed out. I won’t be able to leave. And if my husband and his father haven’t gone to work, then they’ll be here too.

We’ll all be locked in this cursed place together.

That thought seems to do something to me. It seems to set off some sort of catalyst.

I can’t stay here. I can’t be locked in with them.

The tide is low, but the path is still slightly submerged, telling me that I have an hour max before any escape route is completely barred.

It’s a risky prospect, attempting to cross it on foot, especially with the water coming in.

But the allure of freedom is a siren’s call I can’t ignore.

I take a tentative step onto the causeway, the water swirling around my ankles, and then another, each step a defiance of the fate that I know awaits me if I stay.

Maybe I’m too weak, too frail, but what should be a simple enough journey feels like I’m scaling a mountain. Sweat starts to pool across my forehead, trickling down my back. I’m not even halfway and I’m struggling.

I glance over my shoulder, pausing to catch my breath, and from this distance the house looks even more of a mausoleum. A great awful darkness leering down over the twisted trees, with those heavy, brooding clouds only adding to the oppression.

It looks like something from a horror movie, something from a movie set. The only thing missing from this are the bats pouring out from the turrets, screeching as they flew off.

Come on, Scarlett. I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to linger.

If I want to get away I have to hurry.

It’s only then that I realise what I’ve missed. I’ve been too lost in my thoughts, too occupied with what ifs and maybes. The water is no longer around my ankles. No, it’s reached my shins, lapping against my thighs as the current begins to pick up.

Even if I turn back now, it’s not a guarantee I’ll make it to shore. But if I keep going, if I keep moving on… I swallow, taking wider strides, stumbling on the uneven path that I can’t see beneath the churning water.

I can’t go back. If I do, I’ll be signing my own death warrant. I don’t know how I know that fact, but there’s a voice screaming in my head, repeating it over and over. I have to continue on. I have to escape. Before it’s too late.

I press on, driven by a desperation that overwhelms all my common sense.

But as the waves crash over my knees, panic sets in.

I’m not a strong swimmer, and the realization that I could be swept out to sea absolutely terrifies me.

I can’t go back so I have no choice but to to start swimming. Kicking my legs, submerging my body further into the murky depths, as sheer desperation forces me onwards.

“Scarlett,” a voice calls out from far behind, carried like a ghost on the wind.

I don’t need to look to know who it is.

But his presence makes me all the more determined to get away. I swim faster, more haphazardly, my eyes fixed on the shore so damned far away, but the water has turned to waves. It feels like the current is pulling me under and try as I might, my body is too weak to fight.

I’m going to drown here. I’m going to die here, right this moment, and all of this will be for nothing.

A wail escapes my lips as I slip under. Water rushes into my mouth and it tastes so salty and disgusting. With every splutter more water covers me.

I’m drowning. I’m drowning.

And then he’s there, acting like some sort of hero when he’s anything but.

His strong arms lock around my pathetic body, pulling me back, all but dragging me from what is almost certainly a watery grave.

I splutter, falling onto my knees in the sand, spitting up the salty water that moments earlier had threatened to engulf my lungs.

His arms wrap around my waist, picking me up and carrying me further back and to safety.

And yet, it isn’t safety, is it? He might have saved me from immediate death, but I know what awaits me in that house. I know that I will fade away, that I will drift off until I am nothing but a shell of a person. Nothing that resembles me.

I struggle against him, lashing out with words fuelled by frustration and fear. “Let go of me. I have to get out of here.”

“You’re being reckless,” Rafe growls, lifting me effortlessly and carrying me away from the dangerous waters. “You could have drowned.”

I push against his chest, breaking free from his grasp and falling once more at his damned feet. “I don’t understand. Why do you care? You’ve made it perfectly clear that you won’t help me.”

He runs a hand through his dark hair, his gaze stormier than the sky behind us. “Jesus Christ, Scarlett. I may not be able to help you, but that doesn’t mean I want you dead.”

His words hang in the air between us, and it feels like a silent admission of his own helplessness in this twisted game. I shake my head, refusing to be swayed by the glimmer of compassion he’s suddenly deigned to show me.

“I didn’t think you’d be so stupid as to try that again.” He adds.

Again?

So I did it before? I tried to leave before?

“When? When did I try?” I ask, feeling this information might lead me to real answers.

He just shakes his head and all that anger inside me seems to explode.

I lash out, slamming my fists into his chest.

“Just stay away from me, Rafe. If you won’t give me answers, then just stay away. I don’t need your pity, or your brother’s, or anyone else’s in that godforsaken house.”

With that, I turn on my heel and march back toward the mansion, my heart pounding with a mixture of anger and despair. Rafe doesn’t follow me, but I can feel his eyes on my back, watching me until I disappear from sight.

Once inside, I retreat to the sanctuary of my room, stripping off my sopping wet clothes and stepping into the shower. The hot water helps to chase away the chill that has settled into my bones, but it does nothing to ease the turmoil in my mind.

And as I dry off and dress, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched again.

Is it Vincent, is he back again? Leering at me in another of my most intimate moments? Are there peepholes? Are his eyes hidden amongst the flowery patterns of the wallpaper?

I don’t know what to do. I don’t even feel like I can trust my own head, my own emotions here.

I need to get it together. I need to make a plan. I need to… my thoughts trail off as I notice the envelope peeking out from the top drawer of my dressing room.

I snatch at it as if it’s a lifeline.

The paper is crisp and white, but small and torn as if it’s been stolen from a pad in haste. “You’re in danger,” it reads; that same message that has been left for me before.

A shiver runs down my spine as I tuck it into the pocket of my robe.

I know I can’t confront Alex with this. He would only dismiss my concerns, or worse, use them as another means to tighten his control over me.

No, I need to handle this on my own. I need to find a way to protect myself, to document what I remember and what I discover, so that I can piece together the truth.

With a newfound sense of purpose, I make my way to the library, my eyes scanning the shelves for a book that might serve as a suitable hiding place for my thoughts. My fingers brush against the spine of an old tome, its pages worn and its cover faded from years of neglect.

It’s the perfect choice, a book that no one would miss if it were to go missing.

I carefully remove the book from the shelf, opening the book to the first page.

The original text is still legible, but I don’t let that deter me.

I begin to write over the faded words, recording everything I can remember, every suspicion, every fear, every fragment of memory that has managed to survive the fog of confusion and manipulation.

I write about the party, the way Alex and Vincent looked at me, the sense of foreboding that seemed to permeate the air.

I write about the notes, the mysterious warnings that have been left for me to find.

I write about Rafe too, especially the conflict I see in his eyes, the way he both frightens but also intrigues me.

And I also write about what Vincent did, how he hurt me; I know those are the most damning words, the words that’ll condemn me if this book is found, but I can’t leave it out, I can’t risk me waking up and not remembering and stupidly thinking that these people are my friends.

As I fill the pages with my desperate scrawl, a sense of calm washes over me.

This is my weapon.

My way of fighting back.

I may not have the freedom to leave this place, but I can still assert my will, my identity, through the power of my words.

Will this become a diary, a record of my ascent into madness or become evidence, proof that I’m not the one who’s insane?

I don’t know. I wish I did. But just recording this gives me a tiny sense of control.

When I’m finished, I carefully close the book, replacing it on the shelf to maintain the illusion that nothing is amiss.

Tomorrow I will come back for it. Tomorrow, I will pull it back out and write down anything and everything that happens. Even if it takes me months, I will remember what happened to me. I will put together the puzzle.

I am not powerless. I am not defeated.

And I will uncover the truth, no matter what it costs me.

No matter if it’s me? No, it’s can’t be me. It’s not me. It is them. I know it’s them.

I square my shoulders and walk back to my room.

I can’t help but feel a glimmer of hope.

But as I walk through the door, that glimmer shatters entirely and I realise how ridiculously na?ve I’ve been about this entire situation.

“And where exactly have you been?”

His voice, his tone, even the way he is stood sets off a massive alarm bell. I scramble back, my bare feet screeching on the hardwood.

But there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

From behind, a hand grabs me, and something is forced into my mouth. It tastes horrific. Bitter. The distinct foul taste of medicine.

My nose is pinched, my jaw is wrenched up and despite my struggles I swallow it all down while an only too familiar voice murmurs in my ear to “be a good girl and take my meds.”

And then everything goes hazy. My eyes blur. My body loses all sense of movement.

And as my legs give away, my fear becomes cataclysmic.

I’m trapped. Locked in my own body.

Useless.

Helpless.

Completely at their mercy.