|U N E D I T E D|

There is a room at the back of my parents' sprawling Tudor-style mansion. It is inconspicuous and barely noticeable, but when you see it, the first thing that will come to your mind is: it doesn't belong here.

When you enter through the large iron gates and drive forward— turning around the corner to see the beautiful driveway circling around the large fountain, and the beautiful sprawling mansion with its high pillars, age-old architectural design, steeply pitched gable roofs and elaborate masonry chimneys peeking out from behind, embellished doorways adorning the entrance and large groupings of windows all over the house; it leaves you speechless. It's like a scene out of a fairy tale.

You enter the house and you see the rich interior design, the modern appliances and perfect lighting. Large chandeliers adorn the living room, dining and the hall with a beautiful grand staircase leading to the upper levels of the house. You've seen the best— the beautiful parts.

But then you walk to the back. A small door leads to the well-kept gardens and woods beyond. You open the door and see it— that room at the back of the house.

It's more like a small hut and looks ready to topple over. It's about a hundred years old, made of strong timber and iron. Surprisingly, it hasn't been infested by termites yet. There's only one room. It served as the bedroom, kitchen and hall to the old owners.

That tiny battered cottage was a thing to be forgotten. A place my mother despised and my father, indifferent to.

Growing up, I'd never known the real story behind that cottage. What purpose did it serve? My mother did not like it, so why not just dispose of it?

I found out later in one of my expeditions to the lonely cottage that the land and the tiny dwelling belonged to an elderly couple. They'd died shortly upon signing the property off to my great-grandfather (who was seventy-ish at the time).

Their only request was that we don't destroy their house upon their death. So, my ancestors built their palace (mansion), doing their best to not trample the previous owner's home. My great grandmother —being the sweetheart she was— insisted that the couple lives in the estate.

And thus, the cottage stayed. None of my family really touched anything inside the house and every once in a few years a team was brought in to ensure that the house was maintained to keep a check on termites and insects.

But time had a way of ageing things. No matter how many times we had gotten the treatment done or how we had artfully covered it to shelter it from the damaging effects of rain and snow, time took its toll. The cottage began crumbling. The once beautiful cottage looked more like a ransacked tent.

That is how I had ever seen it— crumbling and with planks of wood falling apart.

It had been a century, after all.

Being a naturally curious person I sneaked in one night. Despite the fact that I was strictly warned not to. It was dark and I could hear the clicks and squeaks of hundreds of species resting in the dark. A bat flew by just as I was opening the door. I remember shuddering and thinking if the trouble was even worth it.

The screen door cracked open all of a sudden and light poured out from inside my house.

My father was here. So I went in and my seven-year-old mind forgot all about my curiosity after my father tempted me with sparkling purple shoes I had seen in the mall the other day.

But when I was ten, I came back again. This time I made sure that my parents were away on business. The housekeeper slept on the other side of the Mansion, so no one would notice me.

I got as far as opening the century-old door, which surprisingly opened without a sound— perhaps because of the regular maintenance it received. The inside was eerily quiet and my mind wandered to places I'd never seen. I imagined how a man and a woman had built their life in that very house.

Two people had lived here for the entirety of their lives. They had lived here decades before even my father was born. They had grown old together; making memories, crossing milestones. How could that life just vanish?

They were dead now, dead and buried. How was it that life could just end and the memory of their existence still persist?

The eerie quietness scared me and I ran back to the safety of my room.

I returned again when I was fourteen— at night I mean. I had ventured to the cottage before but in the protection of the day.

But there I was again, fourteen years old, hoping for something cool to happen so I could tell the story to all of my friends.

I went in and this time the door creaked a tiny bit. I felt all that I had four years before. The empty feeling. The feeling that I was intruding on a place that belonged to another time.

I had my phone in my hand— the torch switched on. I studied the house but there didn't seem to be anything special. Just a rusted iron bed hastily stashed in one corner of the room, a two-metre-long granite slab placed on two large cement stones, and a steel wardrobe.

I tip-toed to the wardrobe and tried the handle. It opened almost immediately. A loud screech emanated from the thing and I jumped back.

I felt it again— that I was intruding in on something so very personal. There were people who had lived here, had built a life in and around this place. But the tempting allure of the undiscovered and unknown appealed to me and I opened the door further.

But I was disappointed. There was nothing of consequence. There was nothing, in fact. It was empty. There were two drawers though. I opened them.

And there they were, letters, diaries and pictures. Most of the letters were worn. Some had survived in bits and pieces and few were in better condition. The pictures had faded but not as much that I couldn't make out anything. The diaries were, again, not in a great condition. But there were still parts that were readable.

So I sat there, in the haven of the writers of the diaries and letters. I didn't realise when the stars drifted away and the moon fell. I didn't realise when dawn broke and the sun rose. It was only when the first rays of sunlight entered the dwelling, illuminating it, that I realised that I had spent the entire night trying to decipher the things written in the diaries and letters.

Both my phones were dead. My eyes stung from the strain and my body was worn out from staying awake for far more hours than I should have. My tears had dried on my cheeks and I concluded that my adventure couldn't be shared with anyone.

The letters had been so personal and the diaries, even more so. They'd had a beautiful life— content because they had found each other amongst the crazy madness of the stereotypes that people believed.

An African woman had found the love of her life here, in America. And the man had accepted her, wholeheartedly. He'd left the luxuries of his youth and escaped with his woman to a place where they could build a life of their own.

They'd given aid to those who needed it and made their own family out of the people who had escaped the congestion of the cities.

It was their story and so much more. It was love and happiness and despair and loneliness.

The walls of their house closed in and I realised that I had to get out. I didn't belong here. Sure, they had died— their stories and secrets lost to time, but the materialistic things remained. The ones without life. And here they still were, the husk of what once used to be a beautiful colourful place.

After that, I loved the house. I remember when the plank holding up the roof had fallen apart. I remember crying and thrashing when they pulled the roof apart, making the house more of the husk. Only this much remained of their existence, but the world had to tear it down. Time had to wear it down.

And that is exactly how I feel at this moment. You might have been wondering why I was narrating such a small incident of my life, why I droned on and on about that little cottage that had touched the strings of my heart.

It was because I finally understood how it must feel to be bared to someone who was a complete stranger. I finally understood what it must feel like to lose every ounce of life and happiness and just be. Existing and breathing, but not truly alive.

I am torn apart. Or at least I should be. Because right now, I feel nothing. Just a vast pit of emptiness.

My mind is a blank slate. My hands pressing on the keys on their own accord. I don't know how much time has passed. I don't want to know. Because it makes it so much more real.

The room is dark. And there's only black. Black everywhere. It's surrounding me. It's the colour of the night sky. There are no stars, the moon doesn't exist. Just a pool of black. The letters that I type are black, the keyboard is black.

And my soul is black too.

There's something prickling against my skin. It intensifies when I imagine someone or something around me. There are monsters waiting in the dark. But I don't get up to switch on the lights. I don't—

Because everything is a limitless and infinite black. I already tried it, but it didn't work. I tried switching on the lights. But when I looked into the mirror, all I saw was the black of my pupils, the black bruises on my arms, my thighs— everywhere.

I screamed into my hand because somewhere in the haze of my mind, I remembered that I had opened the windows to chase out the darkness.

Why hadn't I done that yesterday?

Yesterday.

That was the day everything had gone black.

I want to stop. Stop thinking. Stop typing. Stop seeing. Stop. Stop. Stop.

But I can't. I had been fine when I was narrating a different story. Now I have nothing to write save for what I feel at this moment. But I don't, and I can't write about it. At least I don't want to, but my hands don't stop.

I am on my knees, begging. Please. Stop. It's agony. How will I ever step out into the world again? How can I live in my skin? The very skin that was molested by those vile monsters.

Everything is black.

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It was finally quiet. The curtains were drawn, giving her no clue as to whether it was still dark outside or not. She did not care, anyway.

They'd left as swiftly as they had come. One final cackle of laughter, one final stroke against her cheek and they were gone. Even Mason.

She'd closed her eyes through it all— protesting at first, but she succumbed to their evil ways knowing there was no help coming to get her. There was no point in screaming or sobbing. They would do it anyway and no one would hear her.

The curtains were drawn with the windows closed shut behind them. Gwyneth's eyes were glued to the red drapes. Only yesterday, she had woken up to a new day— a beautiful dawn.

And here she was, feeling like the sun would never light up the world again. At least not for her. So she lay there on the bed— limp and forlorn— amongst the tattered and rumpled bedsheets.

A picture of broken beauty and lost happiness, because even her heart, body and soul were shred; just like the sheets surrounding her.

•••

Her eyes opened to reveal beautiful blue orbs. How many hours had passed? Was it morning already?

She couldn't tell. Not with the lights switched off and the heavy drapes still drawn. There was not a single sound to be heard, such a contrast to a few hours ago.

The silence stretched on, creating a buzz in her ears. It grew louder and louder until she couldn't bear it anymore. What was it?

The sound echoed; never-ending. Gwyneth pressed her palms flat against her ears and curled her naked body into a ball. Every single movement hurt. But the silence was so deafening, and her mind screamed in a million decibels.

She wanted to sleep forever, and never wake up. But there was no soft lullaby, no loving warmth. Just a deafening buzz and bleak coldness.

Stop.

And it all stopped suddenly. It was all in her head. She was just there— suspended in time. Every time she opened her eyes, she saw them; the malicious grins on their faces and lust-hazed eyes. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt them; their heavy breath, grubby hands, sweat-slicked bodies.

They were vile and they'd tainted her with their gore.

Wake up. A voice said in the back of her mind. The voice was weak and fading away.

She wondered if it would ever be strong again.