“Wouldn’t you like to know? See me bathe my bare flesh? Lather my cock in soap?” he says, his voice too soft for those words.
“What?” I blurt out, blood rushing to my head.
“You sure like that word.” He flashes a teasing grin.
It’s meant as an insult but I can’t help but respond to the way his thick lips stretch across his face. Fuck, now he has me thinking about him like…like that again. I want to say something clever, maybe even insulting, but my brain is too muddled to come up with anything good. He slowly looks me up and down, lingering on each limb for an unnervingly long time.
“Finish your work. When it is done, come to me in my chamber,” he commands.
And with those words and a lingering look, he leaves the kitchen.
I’m left alone, crouching in my pathetic little basin. It felt so luxurious just moments ago until Abas barged in and made me feel like a miserable wretch begging for scraps.
I step out of the water, shivering as soon as my feet hit the icy tiled floor. I try to dry my body off with the kitchen towels, and my pitiful attempts leave me damp and even colder than before. In this state, the roughness of my uniform feels like torture. Like this, it doesn’t even serve its most important function.
Shivering, I braid my hair with stiff fingers and tuck it under my cap. I feel the strange urge to make myself tea to warm up but find nothing in the cupboards besides the dense rock of bread and some chipped dishes. Resigned but determined, I drink a cup of hot water and choke down a piece of bread. I glance around the table, half-expecting to see one of Bayard’s obnoxious little notes, but there’s nothing but the horrid seeds.
I realise then that I haven’t seen Bayard since he grabbed me by the wrist. I didn’t receive any instructions either, not in my room nor on this table. I assume I should continue peeling the seeds, but without direct instructions, I feel the familiar glimmer of spite growing inside me. I let my head drop to the rough surface of the wood, closing my eyes and resting for a moment.
Just as before. Nothing. Only the silent draft clawing at my bare ankles, making me shiver. Then, suddenly, I feel a strange urge pulling me outside to the grounds. I continue until I find the spot where I dug the ditches the other day. My tools are still stacked in the same spot on the floor, but the holes have been completely filled in. My sore muscles are the only evidence of them ever having been there. A strange feeling comes over me—not fear, exactly, but a sort of foreboding. The kind of feeling that makes me want to do reckless things.
I stand there, wondering if I should dig them back up. Just…for curiosity’s sake. But my muscles shout at me to do it another day. I hesitate for just a second, then choose to listen to them. For now.
But I make sure to memorise the exact spot. Just in case.
VII
I’ve never experienced weather as strange as I have around this castle. Not that I spend a lot of time thinking about the weather. In fact, I never gave it any attention.
But there’s no denying that almost every time I step onto the grounds, something odd is going on with the climate: unusual clouds, sudden switches in temperature, or for some reason, an excess of crows. In the city, at least, things felt more orderly—the stench of summer heat, the chill of winter, or the humidity of rain, every single one of them too unremarkable to even acknowledge. Yet here, as I am standing in the middle of the castle grounds, things are decidedly different.
What once was a completely average treeline leading to a forest is now hidden behind a wall of grey. At first glance, it might seem like regular fog, but it decidedly doesn’t behave like it. Instead, it moves like smoke.
Fog, even as ignorant as I am, isn’t supposed to move like fumes coming from an exhaust.
The more I watch, the eerier it seems. It almost looks like clouds falling from the sky and crawling along the ground. But do clouds usually behave this way?
When I look up, I see the sun shining through cracks in the cloud cover onto the weeds not far from here. Shadows run over dull grass like hurried ghosts. The longer I stand here, the closer the clouds seem to come. The wall of grey creeps toward the castle walls like a hungry beast.
There’s no way I’m staying out here to see what would happen once the clouds reach me, so I head back into thekitchen and shut the door.
As tempted as I am to do as Abas asked, or more like commanded, a part of me is asking for defiance. And with the mystery seeds taunting me with reckless words, I’m determined to win the one-sided battle between us.
I would like to say that for the many hours I spent peeling seed after seed, I was not thinking of Abas, that his taunting and teasing left me completely cold and unfazed. I want to say that the pile below my fingers took up my entire attention, that my mind was filled with nothing but focused efforts and adult responsibilities.
At least, when my stomach starts to make ungodly sounds, I stand up and shove a stale piece of cheese so quickly down my throat, it almost makes me gag. I am in no mood to eat, but I want to deal with my body even less.
I sit down, holding another seed between my sore fingers, but all I can feel is the oppressive silence in this kitchen. It’s so thick, as if the walls are slowly encroaching each time I look away.
I curse this day for forgetting my Walkman in my room, and with each peel slipping between my hands, its call becomes too insistent to ignore.
I glare at the large pile, unhulled and whole, certain that I can’t face them without the small comfort of Cobain’s screaming. Frustrated, I leave the seeds behind and head to my room to look for my Walkman.
As I walk through the now familiar corridors of this castle, wood floor creaking with each step, I realise that I’ve lost my sense of time. I think I’ve been here for about four or five days, but in a way, it feels like it’s been weeks. There’s something about the silent and solitary nature that is hypnotic and, dare I say, even soothing? I mean, I’m aware how many bizarre things are seemingly going on here. Between the unstable inhabitants and the…let’s call themquirksof the building, it’s undeniable that something is up.
But in a way, I’m decidedly less stressed here than I was in the city. I’m pretty sure the reason is because instead of constantly being in a multitude, I have to deal with only 2 individuals. And in the end, what difference does it make that they are both clearly insane?
A change in light makes me stop in my tracks. The crackling of fire. A familiar smell in the air. But the walls here aren’t whitewashed and bare; they’re covered in faded carpets hanging from the picture railing. I look up. An open doorway. Light reaching out, calling me.
