Chapter 2 #2
They aren't cards anymore. They are tiny, fragile porcelain dolls. Hundreds of them. All of them are me. Some are screaming, some are weeping, some are stripped bare—and every single one is being held, crushed, or owned by a tiny porcelain Rhys.
I recoil, a gasp escaping my lips. It’s too much. It’s a fucking psychic assault. I feel exposed, stripped naked in front of this freak.
Rhys, however, looks absolutely enthralled. He lets out a low, dark chuckle, his hand gripping my thigh, squeezing hard enough to bruise. "See, Ophelia? Even the art knows you belong to me. In every version of reality, you are mine to break."
Before I can process the horror, a new sound echoes through the room. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
From the opposite wing of the stage, his partner emerges.
She’s a vision of unhinged gothic decay.
Her makeup is smeared across her face like she’s been scrubbing at it in a panic, and her dark clothing is tattered and stained.
She doesn't smile. She doesn't speak. She just stares at me with wide, vacant eyes, her lips stained a deep, wet crimson that might be lipstick—or might be fresh blood.
And in her hand, she carries a massive, heavy iron axe.
She slowly drags the blade across the polished marble, the screech of metal on stone sending a jolt of pure electricity through my nerves. She stops beside the clown, resting the heavy head of the axe on her shoulder, her gaze locked onto me. She looks like she’s deciding exactly where to swing.
The act becomes a blur of horror theatre.
The clown speaks in riddles, his voice weaving a web of confusion while the woman moves with a terrifying, predatory grace.
She lunges forward, the axe whistling through the air, stopping a fraction of an inch from the clown's neck in a display of lethal precision.
She spins, the blade slicing through a velvet curtain with a violent rip, the fabric falling like a severed limb.
I’m frozen. I’m fucking terrified, but I can’t look away. The adrenaline is spiking, mixing with the fear and the strange, dark eroticism of the violence.
Then, suddenly, Rhys stands up.
He doesn't just walk onto the stage; he claims it. He strides up there, his presence instantly dwarfing the performers. He looks at me, and for the first time, I see a flicker of something purely theatrical in his eyes.
He grabs a prop—a jagged, oversized fake knife—and begins to mimic the clown's twitching, erratic movements. He starts to act out a psychotic, exaggerated version of himself, making wide, manic gestures, his face twisting into a caricature of a madman. He’s being ridiculous.
He’s being a fucking lunatic for the sake of a show.
He lunges toward me, mimicking a kill, but at the last second, he catches me around the waist and pulls me up onto the stage with him.
He spins me around, his laughter echoing through the void—a sound that should be terrifying, but because he’s doing it for me, because he’s willing to look absurd just to see my reaction, something snaps inside me.
I burst out laughing.
It’s a jagged, hysterical sound. I’m laughing at the horror, laughing at the madness, laughing because this powerful, terrifying man is playing the fool in a gothic circus just to make me smile. It’s the most fucked up moment of my life, and I love it.
Rhys pulls me flush against him, his eyes burning. "There she is," he whispers against my lips. "My beautiful, broken girl."
The clown and the woman finish their act with a final, synchronized bow—the woman slamming the axe into the stage floor with a deafening thud that vibrates through my boots.
The clown bows.
"For the lady.”
Then he and his partner disappear back down, leaving us alone.
Rhys doesn't wait for the applause that isn't coming. He scoops me up in his arms, carrying me off the stage and out of the monochromatic nightmare, leaving the porcelain dolls of my shattered self scattered across the floor.
Rhys doesn't let me walk; he practically steers me, his hand a heavy, possessive weight on the small of my back as he leads me away from the wreckage of porcelain dolls and the lingering scent of the clown's greasepaint.
We move deeper into the bowels of The Midnight Menagerie, passing through corridors that feel like they're breathing, the walls closing in until we emerge into a wide, open plaza that makes my fucking skin prickle.
"Where the fuck are we now?" I whisper, my voice still sounding raw and fragile.
He doesn't answer. He just smiles—that dark, knowing smirk that tells me I'm exactly where he wants me.
In the center of the plaza stands a carousel.
But this isn't some cheery, brightly colored piece of shit from a local fair. This is a fucking nightmare carved in wood. It’s 3 a.m., and the only light comes from flickering, antique gas lamps that cast long, dancing shadows across the pavement.
The glow is sickly and yellow, barely reaching the edges of the ride.
The horses... fuck, the horses are wrong.
They’re carved from a wood so black it seems to swallow the light.
Their eyes are cracked porcelain, staring blankly into the void with a gaze that feels far too sentient.
Their mouths are open, carved with a precision that makes them look almost human, as if they're frozen in a silent, eternal scream.
Some of them have jagged antlers sprouting from their heads; others have skeletal, leathery wings folded against their flanks.
There are no speakers. No digital beats.
Instead, the air is filled with the wheezing, melancholic groan of an ancient organ.
The sound is coming from somewhere hidden, a ghostly melody that feels like it's pulling the air right out of my lungs.
A winding, wrought-iron staircase leads up to the platform, looking like a spiral of thorns.
As we reach the edge of the ride, Rhys leans in, his breath hot against my ear. "Every horse carries someone who never got off," he murmurs.
I shiver, a cold jolt of terror shooting down my spine. "What is that supposed to mean?"
He doesn't explain. He just chuckles, a low vibration in his chest, and helps me up onto one of the creatures.
He chooses a stallion with a crown of antlers and eyes that look like they've seen the end of the world.
The black wood is cold beneath me, the saddle worn and smelling of old leather and something metallic.
Rhys climbs up behind me, his large frame enveloping me completely.
He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. I can feel the hard line of his body, the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart beating against my back.
I instinctively grip the cold brass pole in front of me, my knuckles white.
Then, the ride starts to move.
It doesn't start with a jerk; it's a slow, sickening glide.
The organ music swells, the notes becoming distorted and dissonant, echoing through the empty plaza.
As the carousel picks up speed, the world begins to blur.
The gas lamps become streaks of yellow light, and the skeletal horses around us seem to gallop in a slow-motion race toward nowhere.
The movement is hypnotic, a swirling vortex of black wood and porcelain screams.
It’s fucking terrifying. I feel like the ride is trying to throw me off, or perhaps pull me into the floor. But Rhys only holds me tighter, his grip bordering on bruising.
He begins to caress me, his hands sliding up from my waist to cup my breasts through the heavy silk of my gown. He leans forward, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his lips pressing hot, wet kisses against my skin.
"You're so fucking beautiful, Ophelia," he whispers, his voice a possessive growl that vibrates through my entire being. "My perfect, broken little doll. You have no idea how much I love you. How much I fucking crave every single breath you take."
I should be screaming. I should be fighting to get off this haunted piece of shit.
But as the music reaches a crescendo and the world spins into a blur of gothic horror, I feel something inside me snap.
The terror blends with the intensity of his obsession, and suddenly, the fear doesn't feel like a warning—it feels like an invitation.
I lean back into him, my head resting on his shoulder, my eyes closing as I let the dizziness take over.
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, the noise in my head goes silent.
The image of the rusted box in the attic, the smell of decay, the crushing weight of my family's ghosts—it all just... vanishes.
In the circle of his arms, amidst the screams of porcelain horses and the moan of a dead organ, I feel safe.
It's a psychotic kind of safety, a sanctuary built on control and madness, but I don't fucking care.
I melt into him, my body turning to liquid, forgetting the pain and the trauma.
In this moment, there is only the smell of his cologne, the heat of his skin, and the terrifying, absolute certainty that I belong to him.
Just as I think the ride is winding down, the world doesn't stop spinning—it starts to lift. I gasp, clutching the brass pole as a low, mechanical groan vibrates through the black wood of the stallion. The carousel isn't just spinning anymore; it’s rising. We’re gliding upward on some hidden, rusted machinery, lifting us several bloody metres above the plaza.