Page 25 of Carnival
It doesn’t take long for darkness to fill my line of vision, and James is there to catch my head before it slumps back.
10
Rose
My throat is sore, my jaw hurts, and I’m pretty sure it’s only the beginning. My eyes flutter open, blinking rapidly to adjust to the lighting in the room. It’s bright — the lightbulb being as white as they could possibly get.
With a look of confusion, I take a quick glance around the room. Something about the interior is so familiar, but almost like an out-of-body experience. I’ve seen this room somewhere, but I don’t recall if it was on a TV show or if I’ve ever been in it.
It’s a child’s room, a girly one.
Deep purple walls and white furniture with pretty pink flowers drawn on them. The desk has some school supplies, textbooks, notebooks, and pens, and surprise, surprise, they’re all either in purple or pink. Even the sheets are Hello Kitty, only worsening my confusion.
I toss the covers off my body, finding myself in a pair of men’s shorts and an oversized shirt. A sigh of relief slips outwhen I notice that my underwear is still intact, the same one I had before… well, before I was brought here.
Where the hell am I?
The strangest part of the room is that it has no windows. It has curtains and a painted window, but no real one. Of course, trying to open the door is just as useless, a small groan filling the room when my hand reaches for the knob, twisting and turning, but the door remains closed shut.
“When I get my hands on you, James,’’ I mutter under my breath, continuing to look around the room. My fingertips graze the notebooks on the desk, and all of them are… very old. They don’t have any school material in them, only drawings, sketches, and doodles.
Those were clearly done by a child, but they’re pretty good. As an artist myself, I can tell how much effort went into every single one. The shading of the sketches is done sloppily, but it’s to be expected of a child, and these don’t look half-bad.
I flip through the notebook, my eyes skimming various drawings. Some are more abstract than others, and I can’t help the way my brows crease as I stare at a particular piece, seemingly drawn to it.
The background is shaded in deep grays, with some blacks around. The main part, in the middle, resembles a person. I can’t tell if it’s an adult or a child, but from my perspective, whoever it is, they’re crying. And it’s a cry for help, a desperate one, too.
My heart clenches at the thought of the poor child who drew this. Emotions are all over the page, some reeking of anger and fury, others filled with pain, sorrow, and deeply rooted insecurities that I can’t quite place.
I flip to the front page, the first one in the notebook, and something catches my eye. In the far bottom corner of the page are two small letters that cause me to freeze. Suddenly, chills run down my body, and I feel chilly, despite the previous warmth of the room.
R.A.
My initials.
Immediately, I drop the notebook, taking a step back. This is either some fucked-up joke of his, or this belonged to me. If the notebook was once mine, it’s safe to assume that this whole room was mine.
The more I look through it, the fewer answers I seem to have, but the questions continue to pop into my head. Nothing personal, no images, no family photos, no diaries, nothing. It’s clear that this room is a replica of the real one, and the chills that stubbornly coat my body start to worsen, my fingers almost numb from the cold.
I sit back on the bed, mind reeling with thoughts. What is happening? Why am I in this room? Why did James bring me here? And most importantly — why can’t I remember where I’ve seen this room before?
My childhood memories are foggy, at best. The system wasn’t kind to me, and my therapist says that my mind is blocking all the terrible memories to shield me from the trauma. Who knows what exactly I’ve gone through, to the point of completely blocking it out?
I swallow thickly, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to warm up. It doesn’t help even when I tug on the covers,putting them on my body. In fact, it’s only making me more conscious of everything.
Who the hell is James, exactly?
He has layers, thick ones that he wants to show me in pieces until I can form the puzzle. But I’m not the one to play games, and I hate mind games the most. The confusing feelings toward him are terrible on their own, but this? This is him caging me in, chaining me to himself because my curiosity, and the need to know what is going on won’t let me stop seeing him until he gives me all the answers.
The winning cards are in his hands, and I hate it.
My eyes snap to the door when I hear keys jiggling. My heart starts beating faster, watching as the knob turns and the door opens. I inhale sharply, not leaving the man out of my sight.
James strolls inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
He’s wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a plain hoodie, and he’s barefoot. His hair is disheveled, messy, and falling over his face, but there are no emotions behind those dark eyes. Nothingness, emptiness — that scares me. I’ve never seen or met anyone so out of touch with their emotions, and it’s terrifying.
He’s carrying a small tray of food, my stomach immediately growling at the sight. The noise is loud, and a blush of embarrassment coats my cheeks. The food looks almost too appealing, and with how hungry I am, I don’t even have the time to think about the fact that he might’ve put something in it.
