CHAPTER THREE

A cool breeze blows into the room from the door behind the monster which he has left open since he walked in. The cold, soothing feel and the clean smell of the breeze tell me that it must be nighttime outside this hellscape. The breeze causes the flame on the lamp I’m holding to flicker and for a moment, I fear it might go off, but whatever oil is fueling the fire is strong enough to keep it burning and therefore powerful enough to allow me to maintain my stance.

Several feet away from me, the monster’s eyebrows are furrowed to an extent I did not even know was possible. They form mirrored arches of horror over his eyes. His eyes are so red, they pop out of his head like laser beams and his flaring nostrils remind me of my evil boss, Mr. Park, whenever he is about to berate an employee. Beside him, his big hands are still and his fists are tightly clenched as though he is gathering momentum for a very impactful swing. From his reaction, I can see that the painting does mean a lot to him and that I have found in it something with which I can negotiate my freedom.

I do not allow his clear shock and horror to get to my head though. Although he is across the room from me, meaning I would have done very little but considerable damage to this clean and pristine painting before he gets to me, he is still a huge monster, the extent of whose power I am yet to see. What if he possesses the ability to fly across the room in a microsecond? What if he is telekinetic and can move the painting with his mind? What if he can control my mind and will me into submission? There are so many possibilities and many different ways in which this can go wrong and I lose my edge. So, I do not let my guard down, not even for one second. I stare him down with almost the same intensity as he does me, keeping all the fear and apprehension I feel inside me buried beneath layers of pretend bravery. 

“If you blemish that painting with even a speck of soot, you will be very sorry,” he says. His voice has taken on an even deeper tone that startles me. Yet, his words arrive in my ears like tiny drops of condensation that make their way to the nape of my neck and travel down my spine until they settle in my lower back and create a tingly itch that I cannot scratch. I quickly shake this moment of weakness off and put my façade back on.

“If you move an inch before promising me my freedom, your precious painting will lose all its worth,” I say, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice.

“Woman, you are playing a very dangerous game,” he says, his eyes getting redder, telling me he is getting more aggravated but at the same time, a playful smirk tug at his lips which eerily reminds me of Brad whenever a chessboard is placed in front of him. Is this monster enjoying this? Is this a game to him? I frown at him.

This is not my first time bargaining my way out of a difficult situation by putting a man in a tough corner. In my sophomore year of college, I was paired with a boy called Nick, who all my friends called Mohawk Nick because of his ridiculous haircut, to write a report on a topic I cannot quite remember. What I remember though was Nick’s laziness and refusal to participate in doing any of the work. It was not that he told me directly that he was not going to do it but from the start, he tried several methods to push all of the responsibilities towards me. He would not show up when I asked to meet to discuss the work. He would not reply to any of my texts until days later, but when I saw him in class, he would pretend like everything was going smoothly by asking me how far I’d gone and telling me ‘not to hesitate to delegate any task to him’. It took me a while but I realized that he planned to pretend to care for as long as it took me to do all the work. To remedy this, I sent him an email I had drafted to send to the professor and told him that if he did not meet me that evening to tell me specifically how he would pull his weight, I would report him directly. He arrived twenty minutes before the scheduled meeting with his laptop and at least twelve pages of notes. 

A sudden movement of the monster’s feet snaps me out of my thoughts. I watch his knees flex and instantly, his right foot moves forward followed immediately by the left. Blood rushes to my head and I am temporarily blinded by the shock as I too move closer to the painting and raise my hand higher so that the lamp is merely inches from its bottom right corner. 

“Be still, woman!” He yells at me but makes no further attempt to come towards me.

“My name is Cathy!”

“Woman…” he says slowly as if to tell me whatever my name is concerns him not at all. “Lower your hand.”

“Promise me my freedom,” I say. By now, I know that he possesses no ability to fly across the room, otherwise he would have used it. Because of this, I am determined more than ever to secure my release and return home. However, there is something about this interaction that stirs something in me that I cannot quite explain. Perhaps it is the way he looks at me with such intensity I fear that I may burst into flames. At the same time, his eyes constantly flicker from my head to my toes as though he is drinking me in and memorizing every tiny detail about me. I am once again reminded that I am completely naked. 

“Very well,” he says finally. “If you put the lamp down, I will give you your freedom…”

“Good,” I say and then he continues.

“But you must attend the feast I have asked my servants to prepare for you.”

“What? Feast? Servants? No.”

“It is a compromise you will have to make. You are still my captive.” His voice is definite and final, making it clear that this particular requirement for my freedom cannot be argued. Even though I would rather leave right away, I know when to take a win. Besides, the way his eyes roam over me is planting questions and thoughts in my mind, answers to which I hope will be answered at this feast. Against my common sense, I want to see where this goes. 

“Fine,” I say. “I will attend your feast but I leave immediately after that. Do I have your word?”

“You have my word,” he says. 

With this promise made, I lower the lamp in my hand and take two steps away from the painting. The monster visibly relaxes as I do this. The acute angles his eyebrows have formed disappear and his eyes return to their vibrant orange. Still, he does not take his eyes off me until I put my free arm over my breast to give myself some covering. When I do this, his eyes immediately shoot up to mine and I see the left corner of his mouth angle up a little but the semblance of a smile only lasts a fraction of a second before it completely disappears. Without another word, he turns away from me and begins to leave the room.

“When is this feast?” I ask to which he responds: “My servants will come to fetch you when it is time.”

I do not say another word after that as I watch him leave the room. Now, I have a view of his back and all the ridges of muscles that attempt to pop out of his shirt. Truthfully, he is magnificent and breathtaking. Maybe if he wasn’t so evil and wasn’t holding me prisoner, I would consider him a creature worthy of being heralded. He looked like a sculptor’s dream. An artist who can get the fine details of all the beautiful shapes his muscles and bones form around his frame would be one that will be mentioned alongside the greats. 

Just as he reaches the doorframe, he makes one swift turn and faces me, catching me watching him. His face has an emotion I cannot discern but which unnerves me still. Then, he opens his mouth to speak.

“You have surprised me, Cathy. That does not happen often.” And then he leaves.

When the door closes behind him, gently this time, I let out a breath I did not even realize I had been holding. I walk across the room, slowly and light-footed, afraid something else might pop up. Besides, I do not wish to cause any more disturbance, lest I lose the freedom I have secured for myself. I pick up the sheet from the floor and wrap it around myself. This time I do not do it sloppily. I take the time to fold it into a quarter of its original size and then wrap it like a tube dress over my chest and fasten it until it feels tight and secure. In length, it does a fairly good job of covering me from beneath my armpits and over my breasts up to a few inches above my knees. I have no intention of going to whatever feast he has prepared naked so this makeshift dress would have to suffice. If an emergency comes up during said feast, it is unlikely to fall off easily while still giving me room to move my legs and run for my life. 

No longer naked, I walk around the room and properly observe its features and decorations, partly because I am trying to calm myself until his servants tell me that it is time for the feast but also because I want to take the time to understand these things around me. Perhaps from the items on the shelf, the painting and all the other decorative choices, I can understand this monster and make some sense of who he might be, even if only slightly.

First, I examine the vases on the shelf. There are twelve of them separated from each other by about ten inches. Their equidistant placement in addition to the pristine condition of the room I am being held in tell me that this is not a messy monster. He likes his things in order. I wonder what kind of fit he might throw if I haphazardly rearrange these vases. I smile a little at this thought – being able to rile him up and turn his eyes red again. Before picking up one of the vases, the first one from the left, I make sure to make an exact mental calculation of just where I’m removing it from, and then I examine it. This vase has a slim form that makes it only slightly bigger in breadth than a wine bottle. It is made of ceramic and although it looks heavy, it feels light in my hands so I know it is the work of a skilled and superior potter. Engraved on its body is a consistent pattern of blue flowers over a white base that gives it a simple yet elegant design. Inside it is empty, clean and odorless; I wonder if perhaps, he collects these vases not to hold flowers but just for their sake. On a whim, I turn the vase around to examine its bottom and engraved there, in the same colour as the flower: Celia, 1861.

I have several questions, but first I want to know if this Celia is perhaps the person responsible for making all these vases and that engravement is like an autograph of sorts. I place the vase gently on the shelf and adjust it until it is right where I picked it from. For good measure, I take a few steps back and examine its placement by narrowing my eyes. Satisfied, I pick up the next vase – a solid red one that is much shorter and much rounder than the first one. I turn it over immediately and see a completely different engravement but one which is written in a similar style: Laura, 1886. 

I place the second vase back in its position and repeat my process of ensuring it is in the same spot I picked it from. But just as I am about to return to the shelf to pick up the third vase, I hear some movement outside the door. Immediately, I hurry as fast as I can and jump on top of the bed, assuming a prone position. The door’s hinges creak as it opens slowly. I expect to see the monster or perhaps a servant of the same species as him walk in but when the door stays open and I see no one, I tense up and watch with apprehension. What is going on now? What is this?

“You are even prettier awake,” a voice, less deep than the monster’s but just as gravelly fills the room as if out of thin air and I jump up on the bed. Standing on the bed, I finally see the source of the voice as well as his companions. There are three of them, man-like and diminutive creatures, neither one of them more than twelve inches tall, and all of them completely naked. They are standing at the foot of the bed and watching me with curious eyes. Much like the monster, they have horns on their heads except theirs are less curved and the colour of eggshell. Also, while the monster’s eyes are orange, these creatures’ eyes appear to be a mixture of brown and green. This is where the differences end because they have a muscular build similar to the monster’s although proportional to their bodies. 

“We are Master Alden’s servants and we are here to prepare you for the feast,” the one standing in the middle of the other two says. So, my captor’s name is ‘Alden’. I take note of that and smile to myself. The servants aren’t much different from one another but it is still possible to tell them apart through little differences in horn size, and body build. “I am Knox, this is Teon and this is Herb,” he says as he gestures from himself to the one on his right and then the one on his left. Teon has the biggest horn of the three and Herb has the biggest body size. Knox has the narrowest eyes which makes him appear as though he cannot stop watching things intently. 

While Knox introduces them, Teon steps away from the group and goes to the shelf. He moves the first vase about half an inch to the left and turns the second one a few degrees anticlockwise. When he is satisfied, he turns away from the shelf and raises an eyebrow at me, as if to tell me he knows I touched the vases. I look away from him.

“What do you mean prepare me for the feast? What even is this feast? Are you going to force me to eat?”

“Why don’t you follow us and find out for yourself?” Knox says, his voice giving nothing away. The three of them step back in tandem as Herb gestures towards the door, telling me for the first time since I was kidnapped and put here to step out of that door. Then, I realise that I have no idea what might lie behind it.