6: The Gilded Cage
995 Words
The heavy oak door slams shut, cutting off the light from the hallway.
Click.
The sound of the lock sliding home is louder than a gunshot.
"Open the door!" I scream, throwing my shoulder against the wood. It doesn't budge. It’s solid timber, thick enough to stop a battering ram. I pound on it with my fists until my knuckles ache, but I know it's useless. "Leo! Nikos! Let me out!"
Silence.
I slide down the door, my breath hitching in my throat. My side is throbbing, a dull, rhythmic ache that matches the pounding of my heart. I’m trapped. Kidnapped. Again.
I push myself up and turn around to face my prison.
The air leaves my lungs.
It’s not a cell. It’s a mausoleum.
The room is massive, with high ceilings and crown molding, but it’s decorated for a toddler. The walls are painted a soft, sickening shade of rose pink. A massive canopy bed sits in the center, draped in white lace that looks like cobwebs. Shelves line the walls, filled with porcelain dolls that stare at me with dead, glass eyes. A rocking horse sits in the corner, its paint chipped and faded.
It smells like old lavender and obsession.
I walk further in, my sneakers squeaking on the pristine hardwood. It’s a time capsule. A shrine to a ghost. There’s no dust. Someone has been cleaning this room, dusting these creepy dolls, washing these lace sheets for twenty years. Waiting.
"Sick," I whisper. "This is sick."
I go to the window. It’s huge, floor-to-ceiling, offering a view of the manicured gardens below. I reach for the latch.
Locked.
I grab a heavy porcelain lamp from the bedside table. I unplug it and swing it with everything I have against the glass.
THUD.
The lamp shatters in my hands. The glass doesn't even crack.
Reinforced. Bulletproof. Just like the SUV.
I look down into the garden. Two men in tactical gear are walking the perimeter with a Doberman on a chain. The dog looks up, its ears perked, staring right at my window. Even the animals here are killers.
I back away, dropping the jagged remains of the lamp. I’m in a fishbowl. A gilded cage built for a princess who died two decades ago.
I pace the room, looking for anything sharp. Anything I can use. My eyes land on a vanity table made of white wood. A silver brush set sits arranged perfectly next to a framed photograph.
I pick up the photo.
A woman looks back at me. She’s beautiful, with dark hair cascading over her shoulders and a smile that looks sad even in the stillness of the picture. But it’s her eyes that stop my heart.
Green.
The exact same shade as mine. The exact same shade as Dimitris’s.
"Mother," I breathe. The word feels heavy on my tongue. Alien.
I touch the glass. This is the woman who died of heartbreak. The woman who lost me. I feel a sudden, sharp pang of grief that I have no right to feel. I don't remember her. I don't remember any of this. But looking at her face, I feel a hollow ache in my chest where a memory should be.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the photo. "But I can't stay here."
I slam the photo face-down on the vanity. Anger replaces the grief. I need a weapon. I need leverage.
I cross the room to the walk-in closet. I yank the doors open.
It’s filled with clothes. Rows and rows of them. Tiny dresses with lace collars. miniature coats. Little patent leather shoes lined up by size. It’s a history of a life I never got to live, frozen at age three.
I start tearing through them. I rip the dresses off the hangers, searching for something heavy. A metal rod. A loose board. Anything.
"Come on," I hiss, throwing a velvet coat to the floor. "Give me something."
I reach the back of the closet. The wall here is covered in the same rose-patterned wallpaper. I run my hands over it, feeling for a seam. In the movies, there’s always a secret passage. A hidden door.
My fingers brush against something uneven. A loose corner of paper near the floorboards.
I crouch down and pick at it. It peels away easily, revealing a small metal panel set into the plaster. A wall safe.
It looks old. The keypad is dusty, the buttons worn.
"Great," I mutter. "Locked."
I grab the handle in frustration and yank it.
It turns.
The latch clicks. It wasn't locked. Or the battery died twenty years ago and the mechanism failed.
I pull the heavy steel door open. The hinges groan, a sound of rust and neglect.
It’s dark inside. I reach in, my fingers brushing against something soft and stiff.
I pull it out.
It’s a teddy bear. Or it used to be. The fur is matted and brown, stiff with age. One of the eyes is missing, a hanging thread where the button used to be.
My stomach turns over. The brown stains aren't dirt. They’re too dark. Too rusty.
Blood. Old, dried blood.
My hands start to shake. I almost drop it, but I see a piece of yellowed paper folded and tucked into the tear in the bear’s stomach.
I pull the paper out with trembling fingers. I unfold it.
It’s a handwritten note. The ink is faded, but the frantic, jagged scrawl is still visible.
I squint at the letters. It’s not Greek. It’s not English. It looks like a cipher. Rows of numbers and symbols that make no sense. But at the bottom, there’s a drawing. A crude, simple sketch of a black rose.
A chill runs down my spine, colder than the air in the crypt-like bedroom.
I’m holding evidence. Evidence of what happened that night.
I shove the note into my bra just as the heavy lock on the bedroom door clicks open.
- Writer
