Beautiful Nightmare (Hollows Grove #3)
Chapter 1 Prince
PRINCE
Ding-dong, can you hear me?
Can you feel me?
You’re going to die. Now, Mommy, die.
Ding-dong, can you see me?
Can you dance off the ledge?
JUMP!
Standing on top of the roof of our two-story family home, my eyes watch in delight as a cream sleep dress ripples in the air.
The bright moon shines down upon us as long black hair billows around her expressionless face and her arms are lifted, not fighting, just falling.
The New Orleans night is warm and humid, while the fresh air enters my nose and feeds my lungs.
Goodbye, Mommy.
And at that exact moment, her free fall ends, her body meets the earth, and Mommy’s head finds one of the many large decorative stones in our backyard.
A single crack echoes as red crimson trickles out of her nose, eyes still wide open.
I watch her chest, not blinking once to make sure it is no longer rising with each breath.
Smirking once satisfied, my gaze casually moves back to her head, and the same crimson begins to decorate the stone.
Thick gardens surround her, and tall hedges keep the area private; therefore, this is where Mommy will stay to rot.
ROT!
Her eyes become hollow, the whites falling into her sockets and leaving only a black cast. Her skin thins, becoming translucent, while her face caves in and her body deflates.
Hundreds of tiny cream maggots crawl out of her orifices.
Her eyes become filled with them, while others begin to crawl out of her nose.
Long worms hang out of her ears, when I notice Mommy’s mouth drop open.
You can’t see them at first; their long antennas are thin and impossible to identify at night, even with small garden lights illuminating her.
But as their wings open, intricate dark gray and black designs mixed with white captivate my vision; beautiful moths begin to surround her.
I could get distracted by the vision alone for hours.
Peering past them, I notice the once fresh, glistening blood on the stone is now dark and dried. Mommy’s thick raven hair is nothing more than thin strings, and the cream nightgown is tarnished as moths eat away at the silk.
Vines from the garden have laced themselves around her legs, taking her into the fold.
Good riddance to you, Mommy.
I hope you find no peace in death.
As you can no longer give me the shots that suppressed my thoughts, I am finally free.
Your endless need to control only ignited my hatred for you more. Instead of trying to understand the unknown, you suppressed your fear. Me.
An owl hoots; it vibrates through my body. I can feel everything so much more clearly now.
The moths follow, rising with flapping their wings, gathered into a ball of fury above Mommy.
Enough!
The moths flock toward me. Their wings tickle my skin as they rush past me in droves. I lift my arms as they pass. A part of me wishes they could take me with them, lift me high above the ground, and float away. But my work here is still not complete.
The cooling breeze dissipates. The beautiful creatures are gone, and I am once again alone.
Leaving Mommy, I turn around and retrace my steps back inside the house.
The slate shingles crunch under my slippers, then I bend my knees and slowly shimmy down the slanted roof.
Soon I am met with a flat landing that wraps around the entire house.
My legs shake, relaxing from the tense moments before bracing myself on the way down.
The gabled window is still open. I kneel, sliding back through it, and immediately I am greeted by a loud banging noise. Daddy. He is locked in my bedroom.
The house echoes with his antics.
Daddy is a doctor for the criminally insane. He has opened asylums across the country, most recently in Sutton, North Carolina.
Daddy encouraged Mommy’s fear and is the person that suppressed me.
Together they created someone even more dangerous than the version of me they originally feared.
Cocktails of medication would be placed into a syringe each day and injected into my sleeping body in the middle of the night. There was no routine or schedule to his visits, because no matter how hard I tried to stay awake or predict his next move, I always failed and my eyelids won.
Except for tonight.
The medicine would start wearing off in the evening, and today I took advantage of that.
Our old home in the French Quarter has many nooks and crannies, including a dumbwaiter.
It was the perfect spot to hide. Shortly after dinner, I raced up to the top story where the platform sat.
I crawled inside and curled my tiny frame into it and slid the thick wooden door down.
As time passed, my eyes began to get heavy, and I let sleep win.
A commotion woke me. Unsure of how much time had passed, I slowly raised the heavy door and peeked my head out. Mommy was looking back at me.
Her mouth began to open to alert Daddy of my whereabouts, but I stopped her. All I had to do was think about it, and she obeyed.
Next, I squeezed my eyes shut and hoped Daddy was in my room pacing, as he does when frustrated. I demanded the door to close and lock. It slammed, and I jumped. A monstrous roar followed, and I knew my risk was rewarded.
My bedroom window faces the back gardens. I hope he was able to enjoy the masterpiece I performed for him.
My slippers pad against the narrow wood of the attic, and I stomp down the stairs so Daddy can hear that I’m coming, that he’s next.
An uncontrollable and chaotic laugh erupts from me, and my vision narrows as shadows surround it.
My body skips down the hallway while my fingernails scrape against the wallpaper-covered walls.
The brass doorknob at the other end of the hallway twinkles in my eyes.
It’s all I see. As I reach the door, my body stills, the home quiets, and my eyes flutter closed.
A high-pitched scream ends the brief moment of calmness.
My eyes shoot open, and the door leaves its hinges and flies against my bedroom wall, shattering on impact.
Wooden pieces float, and I’m captivated; they are as sharp as stakes.
My eyes shift to the commotion to find Daddy crawling before me, whimpering like a fucking pussy.
Loud screams continue, joined by the flashing of my bedroom light.
Do it.
The stakes stab into him like daggers, going through his legs and into the floor, penetrating his lungs through his back. Blood drips out of his nose and mouth.
“No, son, you don’t want to do this,” he pleads through wheezing breaths, but his efforts are years too late.
In his hand is the syringe. He is trying to distract me; he thinks I’ll show empathy and take mercy, only to allow him to stab me once more, like an obedient dog.
Stomping my foot onto the ground, rage fills my body, and heat overwhelms my nerve endings from the tip of my fingers to the ends of my toes.
Ding-dong, can you hear me?
Do you fear me?
Kill yourself!
The syringe lifts in his hand, and he jabs himself directly in the jugular, in the primary artery in his neck, which pumps blood to his heart.
But he doesn’t stop there. Tiny jabs of the needle continue to poke his skin.
Long squirts of blood fly out and begin to puddle at his feet.
When it comes to the last stab, Daddy pushes the needle through the skin in one fluid downward motion, stopping only once he’s reached his collarbone.
His hand falls, and his body follows, landing on the floor with a soft thud; blood bubbles from his lips. He is choking on his own beautiful crimson.
I watch his chest fall and his eyes die, then the light is gone. At the same time the screams stop, the bedroom goes dark, and finally I’m alone.
I’m me.
No moths appear, or maggots. Daddy is not worthy of such beauty.
His name will be defined by this one act. The doctor for the clinically insane, perhaps insane himself?
Stepping over Daddy, I walk to my bed, tired from the night and ready to sleep. But before I am able to, I feel a new energy, one which is not familiar to me.
Spinning around, I’m confused
An older lady in a frumpy brown dress, with white hair and pale skin, appears in the doorway, no emotion visible and no reaction given. Instead, she speaks, and her words come out monotone.
“Prince. You’re done now. It’s over. This is no longer your home.”