Chapter 10 Elle
Elle
Five nights ago
The hours bleed, one into another. It feels as if time doesn’t pass here. Instead, it stretches. It folds. It blinks in and out.
I try to remember yesterday. Or the day before. Or the one before that. But it’s all become mist I can’t quite grasp.
I know my name is Elle. I know this mansion is mine to walk through, as Clo’s honored guest. I know I’m here recovering. From a fall, they say. By the coast. I recall certain parts—the beam of sunlight blinding me and the taste of bittersweet wine.
Often, Clo brings me tea and soft-spoken reassurances, as well as these little white pills that help me mend.
They keep the ache from clawing up my spine, and keep the tremors from threading through my limbs.
I take them, even when I can’t remember if I did already.
They keep everything quiet, like a lullaby that hushes the parts of me that still want to scream.
And then there’s Stan, who’s always nearby.
He slides into my world like he’s always belonged there.
His laughter warms up the rooms I didn’t know had gone cold.
He’s easy to be around. Stan’s handsome in a way that demands attention.
And he’s built as something solid, something meant to be leaned on.
But his gray eyes in particular remind me of—
I blink, losing my train of thought. When I close my eyes, I see red behind my eyelids. Feel the whisper of wind through vines. Taste salt in the air, as if a storm’s coming. But when I open my eyes and see Stan beside me, I only smell burnt sugar on him, like honey in tea that’s too hot.
“Hey, Elle.” His sweet voice pulls me back. He’s smiling, with his hand out. My fingers slip into his automatically. My skin tingles where we touch.
He talks like he always has, filling the spaces I can’t seem to hold on to. I laugh at the right moments. I nod when I’m supposed to. But my heart clenches when he leans too close. A voice buried deep in me wails in protest.
Clo watches from across this room, wherever we are. I can’t remember, but it must be in the mansion. I don’t recall ever leaving it in the past however while. Clo’s teacup is poised, her smile soft. “Sweet girl,” she says, walking closer to us. “You’re doing so well…slowing down.”
The words settle strangely against my chest. Still, I sip the tea she offers. The bitter taste clings to the back of my throat. A pill follows, slipping past my tongue.
Didn’t I already take one earlier? I can’t tell. The world blurs. Lights stretch. Walls seem further away. Sound curves like smoke. There are so many mirrors in this room of white, all pristine, sterile, yet it seems unnatural.
I keep my eyes down, watching how Stan’s fingers twitch slightly in my hold. My long hair covers my peripherals. I don’t want to see my reflection in the mirrors surrounding this room. I don’t recognize who’s looking back at me.
Stan leans in, interrupting my thoughts. He does that, makes me stop overthinking. His voice wraps around me. “You and me, Elle. Perfect.”
His fingers skim the inside of my wrist, sending a ripple through me. I blink up at him. He repeats what he said, and his words feel like I’ve heard it before. But I can’t remember why that matters.
***
I’ve lost track of the days now.
I think I used to care about that—keeping dates straight, knowing what came before and what comes next. But lately, I feel calm simply sipping tea, sitting in warm rooms with Clo’s voice and Stan’s laughter.
The Song-Smith estate breathes, and I breathe with it. That’s the only way I can explain it, the way time slips through my fingers, the way my own thoughts feel stretched, drawn thin.
I try to remember where I’m supposed to be.
Try to think of what I was just doing. But the teacup reaches my lips again.
The tea is warm and bitter. But I’ve grown used to the taste.
It doesn’t surprise me anymore. Though, the thought that follows does.
I don’t remember anything before this house, before Clo’s voice, or Stan’s grin, or the feel of soft sheets beneath me in a room I don’t remember being brought to.
The memory of anything before here, before them, slips away like steam from the rim of my teacup.
And then I blink. The cup is gone. I frown. My fingers are empty, and the warmth that had been resting in my palms is no longer there.
I look up. I’m not where I was. Stan sits across from me, but I don’t remember getting here. I don’t know where here is.
My brows knit together as I stare at him, trying to place the moment.
Stan usually smiles, effortlessly inviting, casually confident.
But right now, Stan isn’t. My heart falters.
I can hear myself gasp, but I don’t feel it.
I stare at Stan with my widening eyes. He’s just watching me while scarily still.
In his stillness, I see something unsettling, something empty.
His gray eyes stare right into me, unmoving and blank.
And I wonder is that what I look like too?
There are mirrors all around us, and I see a tear spill down the cheek of a woman in a reflection I don’t recognize. That can’t be me. I have brown eyes, not blue. And I don’t belong here. I want to go home. I want to see my family. I want my life back.
***
Time bends. The silk sheets beneath me feel impossibly soft, the kind that invite you to linger, to forget, to stay. I love the feel of them, the way they slip against my skin like a second breath. It makes time irrelevant.
Clo watches us—Stan and I—with that same smile, while she pours tea and offers pills.
“Sweet girl,” she murmurs as her hand glides through my hair. “You’re doing so well. Slowing down.”
The words seep into me. I feel them in my chest, deep and warm.
I sip the tea, and another pill slips past my lips.
It’s bitter and chalky. Then my eyes track the fingers in front of me.
I realize the fingers that lifted the pill into my mouth are my own.
Behind my hand, Clo’s smile stays, looking proud.
I smile back. How could I not? She’s been taking such good care of me.
But then her smile twists into a snarl. The world around me blurs. I blink and blink to fight it, feeling dizzy and faint. I blink really hard, and in a second, the silk sheets vanish.
I’m in a different room now. White, too white, and too bright. The type of white that makes my eyes burn. And there are mirrors everywhere. I feel like I should remember this place, but I don’t.
I sit in a chair, spine straight, body so still. Stan sits across from me, perfectly mirrored. His usual grin is gone. His eyes are blank. It’s wrong, so wrong.
Clo’s voice slices through the silence, soft but soaked in command. “You trust me, don’t you?”
I try to shake my head. Try to speak. But my lips move on their own. “Yes,” I say as my heart pounds.
Stan echoes it. “Yes.”
“How wonderful.” Clo smiles. “You are safe. You are happy.”
The words settle in my chest. Something inside me lurches, unsettled. But I can’t hold on to it. The thought drifts before I can understand what it was. The erratic beat of my own heart feels less and less like it belongs to me.
“You will obey,” Clo says. “You will follow my words.”
Stan’s hand clenches, then loosens. His gaze stays unfocused and detached, as if he isn’t really here. I wonder…is that what I look like too?
There’s a pressure in my chest now, heavy like a scream that can’t quite reach the surface.
“Yes,” I whisper shakily. And Stan says it too, sounding rehearsed.
Clo leans in. Her fingers brush my cheek, cool to the touch. “Sweet girl,” she coos. “You’re exactly where you need to be. You’re safe, and you’re home, where you belong. So slow down your thinking.”
Slow down. I want to recoil. But I can’t remember how to be afraid. My fingers reach for Stan’s hand. I don’t remember moving. But I feel the roughness of his skin beneath mine. He leans in. His lips graze my temple. The heat lingers. I should pull away. I don’t—
I blink. Now we’re somewhere else. The room is mostly dark, candlelit dimly. My fists are tangled in the fabric of sheets.
Stan’s warm breath grazes my throat. His arm’s around my waist, his hand pressing behind me. I realize I’m bare under him. We both are, under a thin blanket covering his back.
Heat coils deep inside me, slow and rising. I try to speak, but I whimper instead. The sound bursts out of me, raw and hoarse.
I hear Clo’s voice too, commanding, “Slow down.” And I hear Stan’s, husky and rough, groaning something close to praise right into my ear.
Something hurts. Something churns. Like my insides are being rearranged. Is this what I think this is? Is this really happening?
I blink away the tears building, blurring my view of Stan on top of me.
A few more blinks, and I’m still in silk sheets. They’re tangled around my bare legs, marred by old burn marks and pink skin grafts. I can barely remember what happened to me. All I know is the marks mean I survived the fire that tore through my legs.
I feel my body move with someone else’s breath.
I raise my chin, finding Stan under me. We’re in a bed.
I can’t tell whose. But my head rests on his chest. His eyes land on mine.
There’s no gleam in it the way my mind remembers Stan.
Then he speaks, sounding intimate, caring, yet confusing to my ears.
“Elle.” He breathes out my name in a sigh, while his fingers draw a swift line up my spine. “I knew you’d feel this good.”
***
I wake again. At least, I think I do. Fingers trace slow patterns over my wrist, featherlight yet electrifying. My breath shudders. The warmth at my back is steady, unyielding.
Stan. Again. Is this a dream? Is this real?
It feels real. His skin under my fingertips. His weight behind me. The heat of his chest pressed into my spine. A pressure inside me that builds and builds until I feel like crashing. The sounds of our bodies meeting, our breaths mingling.