Even though it’s hard to recognise the intonation through the wall, the words sound almost defensive now. Then there’s a long pause until the footsteps come closer again.
“I beg, trust me, master,” the voice pleads very clearly now.
I hear something I can’t make out and then a sharp-pitched squeaking that sounds like metal being squeezed dry. The slamming of a door makes me jump, and I have to hold a hand in front of my mouth not to make a sound. Loud footsteps storm down the hallway, pausing for a moment in front of the room I’m in. My body seems suspended, completely frozen in time. Then, at last, the footsteps move away.
I wait a long while with my hand still in front of my mouth, grateful I had the foresight to close the door behind me when I entered. After all, I didn’t particularly want to be caught snooping.
When the building is completely silent again, I quietly sneak back out of the room, making sure I left no signs of ever having been there. I retrace my steps back out of the tapestried corridor until I find a junction that leads me into the servant’s hallway. Once there, it doesn’t take me long to get back to my room making me wonder, how I even got so lost in the first place.
Once inside the bedroom, I strip the scratchy uniform off quickly, yearning for a hot bath to wash the dust and sweat off my skin. I make do with the wash basin and a small cloth. The water is cold, and there’s barely enough of it to clean myself properly. But I’m so acutely exhausted that I have little energy to care. Too weary to brush my hair, I release my long braid and let it fall.
At least, my pyjamas are soft and the bedding is clean, and I’m grateful to get some rest after this very long and very strange day. The moment my head hits the pillow, I hear the quiet click of a key turning in the lock, almost as if someone had been waiting for me to lie down.
I’ve had insomnia for as long as I can remember. Sometimes I wondered if I couldn’t sleep because I never seemed to feel truly comfortable in my body. It’s not that I had an issue with any particular part; this bag of flesh just never felt like home. Even as a kid, I struggled to move my limbs the way I intended. They’re lean and lanky, sure—some might even say extremely so—but that didn’t explain why I never seemed to be able to use them properly. It’s like a piece is missing, the one that’s supposed to connect my brain to my limbs.
I feel like popcorn skin stuck so deep in a tooth, it’s impossible to dislodge. Stuck with my family, stuck in dead-end jobs, stuck with myself. And right now? Stuck in this too-narrow bed, desperate for rest but unable to shut my damn brain off.
So I do the only thing that ever even remotely works. I grab my Walkman from the rickety night table, pull the headphones over my ears, and let the music drench me in a sea of anger and despair. Straining to see through the dense darkness, I keep my eyes open. I stay like this until they burn so much that nausea creeps in, forcing me to close them again. But I fight the urge, fight to keep my eyes open even as they sting, and I see strange things crawling along the edges. I already know the moment I close my eyes, it’ll be worse. It always is.
Instead, I focus on the words being screamed into my ears, trying not to dwell on why I’m not scared. That’s not a path I’m particularly interested in taking.
Time stretches and slips, and before I know it?—
The soft clicking of a key. A lock turning. A sliver of dull morning light spilling across my bedroom floor.
Trembling in the crisp air, I force my stiff limbs out of bed. I’ve always resented my slight frame. No insulation, just sharp angles and shivers. But there’s no shower here to thaw me out. So I resign myself to another day of being chilled in my scratchy uniform and probably a new menial task.
I brush my teeth as quickly as I can, combing my hair and tucking it back under my cap. At the door, I notice a paper has been pushed underneath scrawled with today’s tasks.
“Breakfast is served in the kitchen,”it reads, followed by detailed instructions for the day.
I head down to the kitchen as quickly as I can, hoping that the brisk walk will warm me. Breakfast is the same as dinner: a heel, a wedge, and a cup. I wolf it down and look for the garden that’s marked on a map on the back of the paper. Today’s task, it says, is to weed the flower beds and trim the bushes.
When I arrive, I can’t help but scoff. For a moment, I wonder if I’m in the wrong place. There are no flowers, just an impenetrable hedge of vines. I inspect it closer. The branches are peppered with needle-like spines, eager to tease the blood from my fingers. The air here is strangely stagnant, carrying the scent of rot and abandonment.
Thankfully, there are thick leather gardening gloves in a bucket, a sturdy canvas apron, and a tiny little pickaxe. I pull the ancient gloves over my fingers, but they refuse to conform to my hands, and I hope that my meagre body heat is enough to make them more pliable.
As I’m trying to differentiate between the vines and the weeds, I smile, realising that the task of weeding a weed is even more pointless than brushing off shrivelled-up potatoes.
The work is dirty, my fingers thoroughly chilled from digging in the damp soil, and the smell of mildew pushes my skull against my suddenly too-tight cap. At least the sun finally makes an appearance, warming my back and offering a bit of relief.
The deep croak of a crow startles me. I’m surprised that a living being dared to come so close to this bleak place.
I continue to pull up random bits of green and drop them into the bucket. I don’t put much effort into figuring out what’s a weed and what’s a plant. No one here would care either way.
When the bucket is full, I walk over to the marked spot and tip the contents onto the heap. I have no idea how long I’ve been working, but the sensation of my skin being cooked from the inside has firmly embedded itself in me, a sign that I’ve spent too much time outside. Unfortunately, I take more after my father in that regard, and my fair skin has never been resilient enough to handle nature beyond the bare minimum.
“Mister Bloom, lunch is served in the kitchen.” A sharp voice startles me out of my thoughts, making me flinch.
I jump up, and Bayard is suddenly there, too close, his distended eyes flat and unreadable. I take a step back and nearly fall into the bushes behind me.
“Alright, thanks,” I mumble, trying to shake off the dirt clinging to my gloved hands.
“Leave it all there,” he says with a shake of his head. “Come with me.”
I follow Bayard through a different path into the kitchen. And when we arrive, I’m surprised to see two steaming bowls waiting for us at the table. After yesterday’s chilly welcome, I hadn’t expected to ever eat with Bayard. He struck me as the kind of person who didn’t need food at all.
I wash my hands quickly, the cold water burning my icy fingers, and sit down to inspect the food: a sickly yellow porridge of indeterminate origin. It’s hot but so bland, I can’t begin to guess what grain it used to be.
