Chapter Two :The Poison That Never Left
1149 Words
The morning sun crept through the cracked wooden window of her small room in the village, brushing her face with golden warmth. Charmaine’s lashes fluttered open — and for a long moment, she didn’t move. The air was heavy with the scent of wild herbs and earth, the faint cawing of roosters echoing in the distance.
Her heart was beating, slow and steady. She was alive.
Alive… again.
Charmaine’s fingers trembled as she lifted them to her neck. The faint mark where the necklace had cut her skin on the night of her death was gone. Her skin was smooth, her pulse calm. The memories from before—cold water swallowing her lungs, Maxwell’s laughter above the pool, Lily’s mocking whisper—rushed back like a blade twisting in her chest.
She closed her eyes. A tear slid down her cheek, but the expression on her face didn’t break.
“I died once,” she whispered to herself. “I won’t die again.”
The air around her stilled, as though the world itself was listening.
In the stillness, memories began to unfurl. She was ten again, running through the grand corridors of the Douglas mansion, clutching her favorite storybook. Her laughter echoed, soft and innocent. Back then, she believed the mansion was her home — not her cage.
“Charmaine, your mother’s tea set is not for children!” Susan’s voice had snapped, smooth but sharp like glass.
The woman had been a vision of grace — tall, elegant, and perfectly composed. Her smiles were honeyed, her eyes calculating. Even as a child, Charmaine remembered how Susan’s hand always lingered too long on her father’s arm.
“I’m sorry, Mother Susan,” Charmaine had murmured, lowering her head.
Susan smiled then — that same smile that once made Mr. Douglas believe she was an angel. “Good girl,” she said, pressing a small plate of honey cake into Charmaine’s hands. “Eat this before dinner. You look pale.”
It was that same cake, sweet and golden, that first made her sick.
The pain had started days later — strange rashes on her arms, stomach bloating, her once-fair skin breaking out in painful acne. The doctors said it was a “reaction,” but the reaction never ended.
Her father had looked at her once, disgust flickering across his eyes. “Why can’t you take care of yourself, Charmaine? You embarrass the Douglas name.”
That night, she heard Susan whisper to him, “Maybe we should send her somewhere quiet. For treatment.”
Somewhere quiet — the words that sealed her exile.
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🍃 The Girl in the Village
The years in the village blurred into a haze of pain and silence. She was eleven, then twelve, then thirteen — forgotten by the city, ignored by her father, pitied by strangers.
But she survived.
The poison that was meant to break her body instead awakened something else — resilience. She learned herbs from the old healer who pitied her. She learned to cook, to clean, to mask her pain with smiles.
At night, she’d sit by the small river behind her hut, staring at her reflection — her swollen face, her dull eyes — and whisper, “One day, I’ll come back beautiful. ”
After turning 20, she was requested to come back to the city. She being naive thought her father has finally remembered her, she later found out that the family company was in crisis and her dowry of engaging to the Williams family could pay the debts.
Three years later, on her twenty-third birthday, the mansion gleamed with lights. Guests filled the hall, photographers flashed, and the air reeked of expensive perfume and false praise.
Charmaine stood beside Maxwell Williams — tall, sharp-suited, and handsomely cold. They looked world apart together, the kind of couple society distates.
I'm reality, Charmaine had already regained her appearance but intentionally maintain the ugly persona in order to surprise Maxwell.
But under her calm smile, Charmaine felt it — a strange warmth spreading through her veins, a fuzziness clouding her mind. Her champagne glass trembled slightly in her hand.
She turned to Maxwell. “This drink… tastes different.”
He smiled, lips curling faintly. “It’s imported. You’ll like it.”
Then, somewhere in the crowd, she saw it — Lillian’s satisfied smirk.
The room began to spin. Her heartbeat quickened. Voices blurred into echoes.
She stumbled, gripping the edge of the table, her vision dimming. But before the darkness claimed her, she heard them — the voices she would never forget.
“She’s been a nuisance since birth,” Lillian’s voice hissed, sharp with contempt.
“She’s your sister,” Maxwell said, tone lazy but amused.
“Half-sister,” Lillian corrected. “After tonight, she won’t be anything at all.”
Charmaine hid behind the corner, her breath shaking. Every word stabbed deeper than a knife. That's when it drown on her to check her pulse. She realised that she was drugged.
Maxwell’s chuckle was soft. “You’re ruthless, Lily. I like that.”
“Then prove it,” she whispered. “Push her. Let’s see if she can swim.”
Charmaine’s eyes widened — but before she could run, a hand grabbed her wrist. The champagne glass slipped from her grasp, shattering on the floor.
“Charmaine,” Lillian purred, her voice sweet as venom. “You look dizzy. Maybe you need some fresh air.”
The balcony loomed above the pool. The city lights glittered below, reflections rippling like a thousand tiny knives.
“Lily—what are you—”
She didn’t finish. A sharp push. A scream swallowed by water.
The cold struck like fire. She struggled, lungs burning, her vision fading to black. Above her, through the wavering surface, she saw them — Lillian clutching Maxwell’s and her father's arm, pretending to cry, her lips mouthing the word “slipped.” The guests looking at the pool in shock.
Then — darkness.
Now, as Charmaine sat up on her old straw bed, those memories burned behind her eyelids. Her hands clenched into fists.
“The poison never left,” she whispered. “It just changed form.”
It wasn’t in her blood anymore — it was in her soul.
Her reflection in the cracked mirror showed a face calm, but her eyes glowed with something new. Something dangerous.
“Lillian Douglas,” she said softly, her voice steady, cold. “Maxwell Williams. Susan Douglas.”
She stood, brushing dust from her faded dress. Outside, the village c***s crowed, signaling a new dawn.
“But this time,” she murmured, stepping toward the light, “I’m not the naive girl you can poison or drown.”
The morning breeze lifted her hair as she smiled — not sweetly, but with a calm that could freeze fire.
“I’m the poison now.”
- Writer
