Chapter 4: Just me.
1159 Words
There’s no one here but you, little book. So I’ll talk to you like I used to talk to myself at night when the world forgot I existed.
I don’t know when it started this loneliness that wraps around my bones like frost. Maybe it was before this place. Maybe I’ve always been alone, and this silence just made it louder.
I used to think I was invisible. Not in a special way. Not like magic. Just… forgotten. People saw through me like I was glass. At home, I was always the one who got the last piece. The last word. I learned how to pretend I didn’t mind. I smiled even when my throat ached from swallowing so much sadness.
I didn’t have many friends. Sometimes none. I would sit at the edge of rooms and watch people live. Laugh. Touch. Like life was something they were allowed to enjoy, and I was just there to witness it. I became a ghost long before I was taken.
Even in my own home, I was lonely. I could scream and no one would hear. I stopped screaming eventually. I stopped expecting anything.
And now, here… this silence is so heavy it feels like it has hands. It presses down on me when I wake up. It kisses my shoulders when I dress. It curls beside me in the bed, a shadow I didn’t invite.
The worst part is I don’t cry anymore. I used to. I used to sob into my pillow and beg for someone, anyone, to hear me. But not now. Not here. I think the tears dried up. Or maybe I just learned that crying doesn’t make the walls answer back.
I eat alone. I sleep alone. I dream alone.
No one writes to me. No one asks about me. No one is coming. I know that now. I accepted it. But it doesn’t make it any less hollow inside my chest.
This book… this is the only thing that listens. These pages don’t turn away. They don’t sigh or walk out or forget. So I write. Not because I think it will save me. But because it reminds me I’m still here.
I’m still breathing.
Even if it hurts.
I didn’t expect to strip naked in front of him. That moment still burns in me. Not from shame, no I’ve felt too much of that already. It was the weight of his gaze. Silent. Demanding. Stripping more than just clothes. I didn’t cry. I wanted to. But I didn’t.
Then the door creaked open, and with it, that strange interruption. A woman entered, face blank, but her eyes… her eyes almost softened. She handed me a folded note, no words exchanged. She didn’t smile, yet it felt like maybe for a moment, she saw me. Felt for me.
I unfolded the note with trembling hands. Just three words, scrawled in sharp ink: Purple dress. Now.
My heart skipped. I moved swiftly, like something inside me knew better than to hesitate. The dress lay folded at the foot of the bed lavender silk, elegant and haunting. I slipped into it without a mirror. I didn’t need to see myself. I already knew I wasn’t the girl I used to be.
They came in after. Silent women with delicate hands. They brushed my hair, painted me like porcelain, and led me through winding halls to a room that glowed with too much light. I couldn't tell what time it was morning? Afternoon? Time doesn't exist here. Only moments.
It was the first time I had shared a meal with someone since arriving. I always had food, yes but eaten alone, in silence, like a prisoner too pitiful to look at. But today… today I sat across from him. The one I’ve named in this diary the Devil himself.
He didn’t say anything. Just picked up his silverware and began eating with practiced elegance, as if I were invisible. I kept my gaze on the floor. It felt safer that way.
Then, his voice low, smooth, unsettlingly gentle. “You should eat.”
It startled me more than if he had shouted. We rarely spoke. That voice... it was almost kind. Almost.
I obeyed, slowly, picking at the food like it might bite back. Then he asked, “Don’t you like it? I made it myself.”
I froze. Nodded. “I do,” I whispered. And though he didn’t smile, something in him shifted. I felt it.
I wanted to ask the time. I wanted to ask something normal, anything that might ground me in reality. “What time is it?” I blurted, without thinking.
His hands stopped. The sound of silver against porcelain went still.
He looked at me, calm but commanding. “Get on the table.”
My breath hitched. He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it was always meant to happen.
I hesitated, searching his face for some form of reassurance, something human. I didn’t find it. Good things don’t last, I whispered to myself.
Still, I climbed onto the table, careful not to disturb the dishes. Each step felt like crossing into a different version of myself.
“Walk to me.”
I did.
He sat at the head of the table, watching, waiting. I reached him and stopped.
“Sit.”
I obeyed, folding my legs to avoid touching him. But he reached out, took my legs, and adjusted me like a doll being repositioned. Now, I sat as he wanted, with him so close, his face almost... too close.
He didn’t touch me long, but I felt like my skin had been memorized. And it scared me how good it felt. How natural his hands moved over me. Cold, but purposeful. Intimate without being vulgar. Like he knew me. Like he'd studied the map of my body long before he ever touched it.
Then he stood.
“We just had breakfast,” he said, brushing his lips near mine.
Breakfast. The word echoed oddly in my mind. Morning, then. This was morning.
“My doll,” he murmured, voice dipping low like a lullaby with claws.
He slipped his hand beneath the hem of my gown silk against skin. I wore nothing underneath. They never gave me anything more.
His touch didn’t linger for long. But it stayed with me even after he stepped back. Like a ghost haunting the space between my thighs and memory. I gasped softly ashamed that my body responded to him.
Then… it stopped.
I opened my eyes. He was looking at me. Something unreadable in those dark eyes of his.
“Finish your meal,” he said simply.
And with that, he turned and walked away.
“Can I… can I get a clock?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He paused in the doorway. But he didn’t answer.
He just kept walking.
- Writer
