Chapter 20
Inferno
THE REQUIEM | Present
Silence is the first thing that greets me.
It’s the sound of air conditioning humming through hidden vents and the distant, muffled chirping of birds.
I try to open my eyes, but the light is too much. A soft, golden glow that feels like needles pressing into my pupils. I groan, the sound raspy and foreign in my own ears. My head doesn’t just ache; it throbs, heavy and slow, as if my brain is several sizes too large for my skull.
“Ugh…”
I reach up, my fingers trembling as I grab my hair, trying to squeeze the pain away. My skin buzzes with a residual electricity I can’t explain.
Slowly, the world comes into focus.
This isn’t the white room. There are no leather restraints.
I’m lying on a bed so soft I could be floating.
The walls are calming, neutral beige, adorned with crown molding that glows in the afternoon sun.
To my left, floor-to-ceiling windows stretch upward, draped in sheer, flowing cream curtains that dance in a light breeze.
It looks like a penthouse. A beautiful, airy sanctuary. So why does my chest feel like it’s being crushed?
I try to sit up, and the room tilts violently.
“Careful, darling. Don’t rush.”
The door clicks shut. I look up, squinting against the glare. A woman stands there, her silhouette framed by the elegant hallway behind her. She looks radiant, composed, dressed in soft silks.
“You’re awake,” she says, rushing to the side of the bed. “Thank God. You gave us such a scare.”
I stare at her, my hand still clamped over my forehead. My memories are a blurred mess of ink and static. I remember… falling? I remember cold fingers? No, that was a dream. Just a fever dream.
“Mama?” I whisper.
“I’m here,” she says, reaching out to brush a stray hair from my face. Her hand is warm, perfectly, humanly warm. “You had a terrible migraine, Selene. You collapsed. The doctors said it was exhaustion, perhaps the stress of the upcoming wedding.”
I lean into her touch, desperate for the grounding sensation.
The headache flares again, a sharp spike of white heat.
“It felt… I saw things,” I mutter, looking past her to the large, sun-drenched room. “There was an Aunt Aris? And people with… with black eyes.”
My Mother’s hand freezes for a fraction of a second before she resumes her gentle stroking.
She lets out a soft, airy laugh. “Aris? Aunt Aris has been in Paris for months, sweetheart. And black eyes? You’ve been reading those dark novels again.
” She sighs, picking up a crystal glass of water from the nightstand and handing it to me.
“Drink. You’re dehydrated. You’ve been talking in your sleep for hours. ”
I take the glass, my fingers brushing hers.
Cold hands. Her hands are warm now. Everything is fine. I am Selene. I am safe.
“Whose wedding were you talking about?” I ask.
The glass in my hand trembles. My Mother’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes go very, very still.
“Yours, my baby.” Her hands caress my cheek. “You told me you loved Vane. He’s your husband-to-be, Selene,” she says softly, watching me over the rim of her glass. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the man you love?”
I look toward the window, watching the curtains flutter. I don’t remember a husband. I don’t remember a wedding.
I only remember the smell of jasmine and grey eyes… and the terrifying feeling that I am a bird in a very beautiful, very expensive cage.
“My head,” I moan, closing my eyes again. “It hurts so much.”
“I know, baby,” she whispers, kissing my brow. “Just close your eyes. Everything is exactly as it should be.”