⚠️Content Warning: This chapter contains scenes of severe depression and a suicide attempt. Reader discretion is advised.

Also, the chapter is written in a parallel structure to compare two different POVs. I do hope it is clean enough to tell the difference. Enjoy!

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Dove into a well: Confront something challenging within themselves.
                                   : Represent a turning point/moment of clarity, where the person gains a deeper understanding of themselves/situation.

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I slide the duvet to my waist, the sudden warmth becoming oppressive, adding to the suffocation by the weight of my emotions. I reach out to the nightstand, my fingers fumbling for my phone. It's still dark out, I wonder how long I've been crying, the tears leaving a dull ache in my chest.

In my search, I accidentally knock over the picture frame that sits on my nightstand, the glass shattering in a more melodic sound than I have been producing all night. I carefully and finally get out of bed, crouch by the shattered glass and pick the photo of me. Short hair, in a swimming costume, with a smile as wide as a boomerang, infectious, and my body bent in a quirky angle, arse tilted up, unabashed. Joshua had taken this while I was dancing and I loved how carefree I was captured in that awkward angle I had to frame it. A memory of a time when everything felt lighter, simpler.

As I hold the picture in my trembling hand, a sob catches in my throat, the pain of loss and longing washing over me in waves and I let the photo fall to my thighs.

"Gods!" I curse when the last drops of my serum spill from the bottle. In an unceremonious grunt, I toss the empty bottle into the dustbin, not bothering with any semblance of ceremony, jump out of bed and head straight to Jac's room. I had just had about enough of the night. It is unlike me to retreat to bed while a party is still in full swing, but my sudden interest in gallivanting has been snuffed out like a candle's flame. A disturbing cloud of feelings overwhelms my chest, and it bothers me immensely that I can't put my finger on it.

The clock strikes four in the silent hours of the morning, yet my mind races with a storm of self-loathing and discontent. I feel disgusted with the skin on my bones, every flaw I see when I look in the mirror or in everyone's eyes. I don't fit into something my mother would buy, I am too small, so she tries to get two sizes smaller. I feel a chill breeze at the back of my exposed head and I hate it. In a burst of anger and frustration, I tear the photo into pieces and add to the glass shards on the floor, then get up, and reach for a beanie to cover my head. I then open my window before entering my closet. And every piece of clothing I have finds a new home outside my window.

The cool night air brushes against my skin as I shed, not just fabric, but also the weight of societal expectations and my own insecurities. A sudden sense of liberation washes over me. Early birds chirping remind me of the freedom found in letting go. As I continue to discard the clothes in my closet, I finally reclaim a fragment of control over my self-perception until, it all comes flooding back like a tidal wave.

"Great!" Frustration prickles at my skin as I jiggle the locked doorknob, probably to keep me out. It will not be the first time I've sneaked into his room to pilfer his grooming products. The creature has impressive taste as well as a mystery as to where he sources his products. Defeated, I head back to my room, hoping to salvage the poured liquid on my nightstand, at least get my hands moist and gleaming. My hair and the rest of my body can survive two more nights, I hope. The thought alone makes me cringe, but I steel myself to the challenge. With practised movements, I dab the spilt liquid on my skin, feeling a slight tingling sensation that signals its cleansing as well as moisturising properties. Every small victory counts, I suppose.

Somehow, I find myself in the bathroom. I did not need to use the toilet, but here I am, perched on the toilet seat with my panties pooled around my ankles. My eyes stare at the plain blue wall before me, unblinking and motionless, like a possessed being wrestling with the demons in her head. A hurricane of loathing, overwhelm, and regrets invades my mind I feel like it's empty. It's as though my very being has become a vessel for these tumultuous feelings, each thought and memory crashing against the shores of my consciousness, threatening to consume me whole. The weight of it all leaves me feeling hollow as if my essence has been drained by the relentless onslaught of emotions.

I don't even realise finishing and standing by the mirror. It's only the sound of the flushing toilet that jolts me back to the present moment, blinking away the trance-like state. "What the fuck is going on?"

A familiar sound, both enthralling and a chill to the bones, echoes from the other side of the door. With a slight creak, the door opens to reveal the figure of the beast I had earlier wanted to steal from. I scramble up from my embarrassing kneeling position, my cheeks ablaze with scarlet hues that extend down to my dick.

"Hey!" his voice rings out again, carrying a commanding yet familiar tone that sends chills all over my body. "Felt a jiggle on my doorknob earlier, figured it was you, lad. Here." The clear serum bottle he tosses my way lands in my hands effortlessly.

"Cucumber serum," Jacobson remarks casually, his words laced with a hint of amusement. "Hope it lasts this time," he adds before making his departure, leaving me to grapple with the complex emotions stirred by his presence; both exhilarating and unsettling.

The words escape my lips, a desperate plea for clarity amidst the chaos that engulfs me, and the mirror reflects a visage of confusion and distress. Each breath is a struggle, each heartbeat a reminder of the fragile balance between sanity and madness.

My eyes become lost in the mirror, their gaze clouded by unshed tears that cling to my eyes like a stubborn contact lens. They act as a magnifying glass, not in a literal sense of enlarging objects, but in magnifying the deep-seated hole that I've unwittingly slipped into while trying to hold onto something elusive. It's a feeling of being misplaced, like a chess move gone wrong that initially seemed like a victory but ultimately turned out to be a foul.

And in that moment, as I lose myself in the reflection staring back at me, I'm overcome by an overwhelming urge, a primal desire to drown out the turmoil within the numbing embrace of alcohol. I'm drawn to the idea of understanding what drove my father to seek comfort at the bottom of a bottle, to unravel the mysteries hidden within the amber liquid that promises temporary oblivion.

But before I can succumb to the intrusive thoughts swirling in my mind, a surge of raw emotion bursts forth. I scream into the mirror, the sound reverberating through the bathroom. I sweep everything from the counter and shelves, the clatter of objects hitting the floor in a chaotic symphony that mirrors the chaos within me.

The air feels charged with pent-up energy, crackling with the intensity of unresolved emotions. I reach out for anything to my reach and shatter the mirror, the shattered fragments of my reflection serving as a reminder of the fractured state of my mind, a mosaic of pain, confusion and dread.

As the echoes of my outburst fade into silence, I find myself standing amidst the debris of shattered illusions and broken reflections, when I see it.

I jog to the door and lock it, a desperate attempt to avoid being caught in a vulnerable moment, and I can't believe I'm not talking about sex. I don't have a crush on Jacobson, that, I know for certain, but I always seem to hold my tongue around him, wanting to pin him down and recreate our first time together. It was a one-night stand, but it is the only best I've ever enjoyed. That night I was high on a drug concocted from the mirage waters. In that altered state, he was more than a Jacobson; he was a manifestation of desire and fantasy, a fleeting embodiment of everything I crave. I want him back.

With a resigned sigh, I stand before the mirror, confronting the echoes of past pleasures and present struggles. I apply a small amount of serum to my palm, its cool touch a contrast to the heat of my emotions. As I massage into my skin, I feel the tension in my muscles begin to melt away, replaced by a temporary calmness that serves as a respite from the chaos of my thoughts.

A business deal went awry earlier, resulting in losses for nearly ten girls, and here I am, hiding in my room to bury a moment that will stay with me forever. I could use some redemption.

It sits there, glaring, almost empty. It couldn't be enough to harm me, right? After all, many consume it daily, diluted in various concoctions, but it is the same taste and smell. Perhaps this small amount remaining is the same percentage of it in an alcohol bottle, potent enough to make me tipsy, forgetful or even temporarily unconscious.

I just want to bury the pain, to breathe above the suffocating weight of my emotions. I want to live. I want to crawl out of my skin even if it's just for a few hours. I want to forget feeling something for Cain even for a second or me being a parent to my parent. It's not too much to ask, right? It's not too much to ask.

Deciding I've wallowed enough for a night, I liberally spritz myself with perfume, slip into one of my favourite outfits and fasten my signature harness. With purpose in my stride, I step out into the world, seeking redemption beyond the confines of my room and small rituals. Maybe my source of redemption is on the other side of my wall, or rather, outside the Subterranean.

I find myself leaning against the bar, watching or rather, observing the lively scene before me. The air is rife with energy, it's hot and heavy and reeks of sweat, the distinct aroma of high-calibre perfumes and the unmistakable sharpness of alcohol that hangs in the air. A new note, foreign to this world underneath, different from the usual mustiness and blood orange, petrichor evades my nostrils. But not thinking too much of the marriage of scents in the air, I order a blood orange, perhaps a new taste to my palate. I'm switching it up tonight.

My right-hand trembles as I grasp the bottle, its clear liquid swirling seductively at the bottom, enticing me to take that daring sip. With a sharp inhale, I remove the lid and toss it aside. My eyes spark a curiosity, scarlet and thick with emotions and tears. My heart races in a fit to escape and my whole body quivers at the mere thought of consuming surgical spirit.

I can't explain the impulse that drives me, but the bottle's tip meets my lips, and I catch a whiff of the spirit's acrid scent. It sends a shiver down my spine, settling in the pit of my stomach as I close my eyes. The liquid burns its way down my throat, a fiery path through my food pipe and into my empty stomach.

As the cold tiles meet my skin, a piercing throbbing pain around my shoulder, up my neck to my head, a fleeting vision dances before my half-closed eyes—a pair of feet, or perhaps a figment of my intoxicated mind. The world blurs, sensations melding into a surreal experience, and I feel as if I'm floating, light as a feather.

My unsatisfied palate drives me to order a third glass of vodka tonic, blood orange. The party is now at its peak. Secret transactions are underway, but not mine. I have nothing to offer anymore. None of my girls trust me anymore. I ruined it! And for what? Let not anyone convince you ambition is good, a gift to exploit. It has cost me everything. Ambition is karma in disguise.

Today's deal was meant to be a stepping stone, paving the way for future deals. I was tasked with selling a queen to replace another deemed unfit for the king's desires. The details were intricate; eight additional girls were to be added as concubines, offering a provoking array of choices.  A second choice to the first, or perhaps if it went well, a second queen. However, my choices were flawed. I selected the most eager and promiscuous girls from my cohort, unaware of their clandestine rendezvous with other men for meagre pay and longer nights.

Loose than the queen I am to replace, they were, all uncovered by an undercover agent who was sent by the buyer to scope out my business. Turns out, the 'King', was my father. My mother had cheated, but they'd rather humiliate her as a whore than admit he was the boring one with a limp dick, and I was about to sell compromised merchandise, damaged goods to him at a price far higher than that of a clean girl. My business is done.

Echoes. All I can hear are echoes. She's drunk. Alcohol poisoning. We can't pump her stomach from here. Shame. Listen to me. I respect you, boss, but. It's a tough act to follow. A role model, he was. I'm sorry, honey. Too much at your expense. Your father is in rehab. Cain. Joshua is worried, didn't let him in though. Hospital. I remember sirens, agonisingly loud. Then more echoes. A weep. I'll let you rest. Your father should never know about this. It'll kill him. Oh, Cain. Kendi. I shouldn't have said that, I shouldn't...my friends, gawd, what shitty excuse is that, huh! Just don't go like this. And a voice that speaks in a foreign accent, not quite American nor British, but more British than I can say, sedated.

"Your business is more than done," a woman says as she joins my casual lean at the bar, vivid notes of petrichor tumbling over to replace the current scent of blood orange I've found incredibly intoxicating.

"And you would know?" I ask, my scepticism laced with curiosity as I cautiously sip my drink before downing it and signalling for another. "You don't read minds, do you?"

She responds with a sigh, a hint of amusement in her voice. "No. I happen to listen to the drunkest and loudest dumbfucks in a club. I could use your help."

I stare at the ceiling and let out a groggy laugh. "Oh, Miss. I wish I had the confidence of a maiden such as yourself to enter such a toity place as the Subterranean. But after today, I'm done being 'The Panda.'" I air-quote to the name I was given by previously impressed clients.

"You could make use of your skill somewhere else. I've got a job for you. No pay."

"Oh? Was that the sales pitch you rehearsed?"

She replies directly and with confidence. "Yes. You are a Corinthian, after all."

"Ah, I see. Did your homework, didn't you?"

"Is that a yes?"

"I don't know the fuck I'm getting out of this, so the fuck get out of my face."

"I'm not sure if I'm ugly, or not ravishing enough. I'd love it if you spared a glance even once before you make your decision," she challenges, undeterred by my bluntness.

"Still, even if I realise you are the Queen of Dry Bones, I'd love to know—a bit more of context is all I'm asking for."

"I'll tell you..."

"No!" I cut her off, wary of her intentions. "I know where you are going with this. So, if you want me to look at you, I'd rather you start talking. Who knows, maybe I'll consider before knowing who you are."

She scoffs. "I'm sensing by the periphery of your drunken eyes, you've seen my choice of attire. You judge. Maybe I could be one of your girls, buying time before I met with one of my clients."

I snort and choke a little, still staring up at the ceiling. "You speak well, so no, not the first stereotype I've pigeonholed of you. You smell like rain, my girls usually smell like figs, strawberries, lavender, winter and apples or lemon. Your dressing is not of a rich woman, and I hear the jiggle of anklets, so that is off-putting."

"So, what is your verdict?"

"A goddess."

An impressed scoff is thrown my way. "See, I need you."

"Persuade me, goddess."

And this time, it was not echoes. It was a clear whisper into my ear. "The well was too deep, I didn't think you'd dive so far. You will not remember this, not for a long time anyway, but I can't help to satisfy an itch. No, I enjoyed the brief moment of your dwam, surgical spirit mingling with your blood and your mind almost like a cabbage. It was enough to select you as the perfect candidate. For what? Oh, let's see. You'd think this is a dream, that I told you your father's choice of drinking was not his own and it somehow made him vulnerable and lost, momentarily taking him out of the picture, because then, you'd come in. What more do you need? You already adopted resilience, a knack for taking care of others and wanting to do anything at all to feel like you are serving your purpose. Here, you are. Or rather, you will. You will join a regiment, confused the fuck out of your mind why, but let me tell you why. As you climb out of this well your father dug but never filled with water, you will want to find yourself, and, Kendi, as we see through your eyes, you will gradually be connected to your heritage. You won't know, it will be too late when you find out, but you'd have helped your father a lot."

"I need adept individuals to help me assert my revenge on a certain mortal."

"What did the mortal do?"

"Chipped my immortal soul. I will need a human, purely for access to the underworld and I know the perfect candidate. You will help me recruit each and everyone I need to help carry out my plan."

"And who do you need?"

"I need a Cupid to elicit a connection whether it is temporary or not. I've recruited your ex, Echo, purely for distraction. She's a ticking bomb from lips to her legs."

"What's your plan?"

"I'll need to find the princess of Colchis, but if we don't, I need to find another sorcerer as a backup plan."

"Are you this desperate you go running after the dead?"

"I'd have let it be, but, you know, closure."

I finally lower my head and turn to face her. Her hair is almost gold, shimmering under the lights. Her eyes are glassy, void of any emotion, like she cried it all out to give birth to this beastly goddess.

"There's more you aren't saying."

She picks up my now-replaced glass of blood orange and downs it all at once.

"You'll find out soon. Just get me them."

"What's in it for me?"

She clunks the glass against the counter. "You get to feel like a man again, Panda. You get to be a bloody Corinthian without living under your father's shadow. You get to be in control of your narrative, and you get to be on the winning side."

"You are smart, you are cool and you are you. You have the power to put a stop to this, to make sure that you put an end to what your father never started. It is a trap. Look at the reflection inside the well. We whisper our secrets inside. What do you see beyond the reflection, darling?"

"Then who's our antagonist?"

"Every single one of them against us."

My eyes jot open, bemused, lost. "What happened?"