3. Chapter 3
Sixty days later
I had lost track of time. Somewhere along the way, I stopped counting the days. A numbness had settled in my chest. There were three other girls here. I wasn’t alone in this nightmare. There was the blonde-haired girl from the car the day I was taken, and my neighbor, the one I shared a wall with.
Her name was Mischa. At least, that had been her real name.
It was too bad she couldn’t remember she was Spring now. No matter how many times they shouted and beat her, it never stuck. I prayed for her day and night, but that never worked either.
Having quickly put two and two together, I rationalized that if I was now Autumn, and Mischa was Spring, the girl from the car was Summer, then somewhere there would be a Winter, too.
Footsteps approached, signaling the arrival of breakfast. I moved to the end of my bed and stood as they had taught.
With my head bowed, I waited for him to speak.
“Come with me,” the Collector said.
My head rose, and I hid my surprise. This was different. There was no food tray, and he beckoned me to follow him. There was a strange liveliness in his expression. I stepped outside the room I’d been confined in for what felt like an eternity.
The sound of construction work echoed through the hall. The air was thick with dampness and mold. It clung to the walls and filled my lungs with each breath. Standing before me were two other girls—the blonde and another with hair that blazed like a fire on the beach at night.
“Attention,” the Collector barked.
The other two girls were already in position, so I immediately recalled the stance. Heels together. Legs straight. Chin forward. Hands at my sides. There was a fumbling of keys, and the door beside mine was unlocked.
While the Collector went inside, I broke position, and I wasn’t the only one. The three of us girls exchanged shocked looks before whatever was taking place inside Spring’s room reached our ears.
“Quickly now, if you’re not in the hall when he arrives, I will be unable to stop him from hurting you. I know you don’t want that, so let’s go.”
“But I need to make it perfect.”
I cringed. She hadn’t been given permission to speak, and her words could be considered talking back. That was two rules broken. I gulped, and my heart pounded inside my chest. Noisy footsteps took to mirror the pattern, and fear descended in the narrow hallway.
By some miracle, she appeared before he did, and once more, the command was given. I wanted to look, to see my neighbor, but fear held me hostage. What followed was an animated tour of our new home given by the Mask.
When I chanced a glance at my neighbor, we were finishing up the tour. I’d never forget how small and fragile she looked. Tiny and clearly younger than all of us. She seemed out of place, if that made any sense. Like in primary school when they show you four objects and one of them doesn’t belong.
That was her, delicate like a baby bird with broken wings, while the three of us had substance. Her bruised cheek held the evidence of her latest mess up, but by some miracle she got through the tour without being screamed at.
“Now that you’ve seen everything, you must admit this is similar to your boarding school, isn’t that right, Summer?” the Mask asked.
“Yes, Sir,” she replied.
“I’m glad you feel the same. Now for the last two things. I’ve promised you all new bedrooms. They are not only show-worthy but what all little girls dream of having. They’re themed, of course, you will love them.”
The way he said we would love them made it clear it wasn’t optional.
We made the trek in the opposite direction of the holding rooms and were shown our new living quarters.
It was an upgrade, and true to his word, there were parts that were stunningly beautiful and surprisingly sophisticated.
That’s how my mum or Aunt Sophia would describe mine.
It had a warm palette and natural beauty. It was draped in the rich, earthy tones that were synonymous with my new name. The focal point of the room was a wrought iron bed with intricate scrollwork of leaves.
It was covered in luxurious linen of deep coral and a soft blush. It reminded me of a portrait I’d made for my mother, showing the last rosy sunset of summer as it gave way to autumn. Plush pillows hinted that it was going to be loads more comfortable sleeping here.
A simple wooden nightstand stood beside it with a pumpkin themed clock. A vanity sat beneath a teardrop mirror. Flowers of orange and dusky pink spilled from wooden crates. They were artfully placed around the room. Some extended upwards, framing the mirror.
There was even a cozy, fringed rug that complimented the smooth wooden floorboards. An easel and an expensive art set sat waiting. I wish I could say that things got better from that point going forward, but it was only the beginning.
While the room afforded me the luxury of allowing my mind to drift and pretend there was a normalcy in it, our new daily schedule would sometimes make me long for the tiny cell instead. At least in there we were left alone for the most part.
Spring was still my neighbor, and I quickly learned the walls here were so thin it often felt like there was just a sheet separating us. Everything was amplified, if you will. Another thing that made me long for my old room.
Later that evening, the woman who had been driving the car stepped into my room.
But something was significantly different about her.
When she lifted her head, my breath caught in my throat.
A dark, jagged mark ran from her hairline down, across her forehead, cutting through her eyebrow and trailing over the bridge of her nose.
The entire left eye, and the skin on her cheek, was angry and uneven, shiny in places like wax that had melted and hardened again. I stared before I could stop myself. Sixty days ago, her face had been smooth. Now it looked like someone had pressed hot metal against her face. She’d been burned.
When she noticed me staring, she steeled her eyes and brought up a hanger with a dress on it, covering it the only way she could. The Collector introduced her to me as X and then stepped out.
She didn’t speak but gestured for me to undress. Was the weird dress for me? Her eyes darted to the door, and I could feel her panic rising. Instinctively, I understood. I removed the nightgown they had given me and looked at the garment again.
It was strange looking and reminded me of dolls you see in antique shop windows. It was embroidered and full of lace. It had a pinafore. It was pale yellow, adorned with intricate floral patterns. The neckline had a ruffle of lace, and it framed my face.
The sleeves puffed at the shoulders, tapering down to fitted cuffs adorned with tiny pearl buttons. The waist was cinched with a satin sash tied into a neat bow at the back. The skirt billowed out around me, falling in soft pleats to brush against my knees.
Beneath the dress, X had insisted I wear white tights that hugged my legs like a second skin. My shoes were black patent leather, polished to a high shine and decorated with tiny bows at the toes. They clicked against the floor as I shifted nervously on my feet.
Soon X was heaving, signaling we needed to leave my room.
I didn’t want to go, but there was never a choice in what I wanted anymore.
As I was ushered out of my room, I noticed the other girls were standing by their doors already.
Each of us was a picture of porcelain perfection, hair meticulously styled and faces painted with a delicate touch.
Winter was clearly the most uncomfortable. An uneasy look settled on her face. She had a wise look about her. Maybe she had been here the longest. Summer’s face was hard to read, and poor Spring beamed in her pink dress. She looked so proud of her appearance.
We were led to the arena. A throne faced the stage. Behind it, there was a small riser of seats. Onstage was a cello, a piano, and an easel. After being placed side by side next to one another, the Mask and the Collector came into view. With them was another man.
He looked close to my brother’s age. He stood tall and lanky and had an air of unsettling elegance. His eyes and much of his face were hidden behind a mask reminiscent of those worn at a masquerade ball.
At least his wasn’t scary, but it was still unnerving the way he intently stared at each of us. He was dressed in a sleek black tuxedo; the fabric clung to his lean frame. He was led to the throne and took his seat.
“Today is special and for one of you could mean a different outcome than the others. In the coming days, you will learn what your purpose is and how long you will stay. You will cultivate fans along the way, using your talents to wow the world,” the Mask began, and I wondered how many times he had given this speech.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something awful was going to come from this.
“One by one, you will come forward and perform for my son, Sonny. One of you will be chosen to become his. It is a coveted role, one you will want to ensure you pour all of yourself into. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.
Seize it and your life will be significantly different.
Give a pitiful, empty performance and it will cost you everything. ”
As if we hadn’t already lost everything.
His delusions would only become more and more pronounced as the years went by, but at that moment, all there was, was fear and confusion.
It was as if we were standing before a figure from a nightmare, a puppet master pulling the strings, all while wearing a grin on his face.
Winter was called first, and she approached the cello like an old friend.
A sense of relief covered her face, and I sucked in a breath.
She looked so beautiful. The amber color of the instrument, combined with the lights catching in her hair, complemented the serene look on her face.
With a haunting melody, the room filled with the mournful strains of the cello echoing off the walls.
The man on the throne clapped lazily as she finished, and he leaned over immediately to the Mask and whispered low. With a nod, the Mask introduced Summer.
My mouth fell open as she took her seat at the piano and, with one deep breath, her small fingers danced across the keys. Like Winter, she disappeared, losing herself to the music. All that was left was heartache and confusion.
Once more, the man reacted, this time with a shake of his head. He rejected her. That was clear as day. As the Mask called Spring forward, she missed her cue. The fact that he had to call her name twice was lost on the small child because X prompted her to take the stage, and she once more beamed.
She gracefully took up her spot and moved with a fluidity that was mesmerizing. The new man sat forward intently, a smile lighting up his face as she danced.
“Come here, little Spring,” he called, and his voice sent a shiver down my spine.
It was low, whispering with a warmth I wasn’t expecting, given that his father’s was cold and devoid of compassion. The silly little girl smiled and ran to him. She stopped short when the Mask scowled. She curtseyed and then bowed her head. My stomach bottomed out as Sonny tilted her chin up.
“You are molto piccolo. Do you know what that means?”
“No, Sir,” Spring whispered.
He spoke Italian. A shock reverberated through me.
“It means very petite, which is a fancy word for small. You are like a living doll, so pretty.”
I couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread as he continued to ask her simple questions. His words hung in the air. She answered him in the same soft, feathery voice of a small child, and then he sent her off to stand by the other seasons.
I was called forth, and I shook with trepidation. I drew or painted. Of all our talents, mine was the least impressive. It hit me then—I was the one who didn’t belong. These girls were next level elites. They had to be in their respective arts.
X brought out three narrow platforms. The girls were then instructed to stand before them.
X moved around, rearranging dresses and making it look like the girls were standing on a shelf in a doll shop.
My easel was repositioned next to the man on the throne, and I was forced to stand in the presence of evil.
“You will draw them as they are,” the man demanded.
A faint smile played on his lips, and I picked up the charcoal pencil. My stomach churned at the request, and with no choice but to comply, I took a deep breath and pretended I was in my room at home.
I had dolls I played with, but mine were modern and had accessories that were fashionable. Like most artists did, I’d lined them up in my bedroom and drawn. So using that as my reference point, I drew the girls before me. My hands were steady as I sketched.
The room fell silent as I worked. The only sounds were the scratch of my pencil on the paper. I didn’t realize the stillness I’d forced into myself was what caught his attention.
Summer and Winter remained stoic as I drew, and Spring fidgeted halfway through causing the tension to rise. From across the room, there was the slightest movement of Winter swallowing hard, and Summer blinked rapidly each time.
As I finished the basic sketch, Spring’s cries as she was spanked for fidgeting echoed through the room. I set the pencil down, feeling the son examining not only me but my work. In the end, the emotions Winter and Summer displayed while playing were their downfall.
Weeks later, Sonny would confide in me that he had almost chosen Spring that night. I wish he would have. Maybe she would have been spared the worst of things, but as it was, it didn’t play out that way.
In the end, it was my composure he wanted. My ability to show nothing that sealed my fate. The days turned into years, and living in this prison didn’t get any easier, no matter how many rules we mastered.
Chained and forever linked by new names, we became the Season Sisters. Despite the attempt to keep us isolated from one another, they failed to understand that our shared experiences, like this one, only further bonded us.