The alarm wasn't supposed to go off yet. The fragile and slim body of the child was sitting upright, staring at the clock. For as many days as she could count, it had always gone off at the same time, no matter what. So what now? Why was today different? What did she miss?


His tall, slender body stands in the doorframe. He isn't supposed to be there for another hour. Then, why? Why is he here so early, staring at her, with that silver pencil in his hand? She hates that pencil. She never told him, because why would she want to bring him pain? But she hates it. It hurts. The lines across her porcelain skin, hurts. It doesn't even look like a pencil. Not even close. It's sharp, broad and horrifying. And it cuts through her skin like it is merely water.


She lies in a pool of water. It's not really water, no, but she chooses to believe it is. She always chooses to believe it is. It makes the whole thing less… terrifying. The wounds on her body, some healed, some closed, happened by accident. In reality they definitely did not, but she chooses to believe that to. Rather lying to herself, than facing the truth. The dim light from the lamp is the sun, and the cold marble tub is the floor of a grand ballroom. And the man in the doorframe? He is an angel, a savior, a hero. Now, once again, he really is not. But she believes that he is, with her whole heart. 


Her world consists of four walls, a roof and a floor. That's what you would say if you'd seen it, at least. But to her? To her, it is all she has ever known. The world before the room was, in her memory, black and white. And blurry, oh so blurry. It happened once in a while, that she would remember a voice, a smell or sometimes even a face. But those were all memories after all. 


So here she lies, on the ballroom floor, the wounds from her endless running in the garden, and her body floating in the water. Deep down she knows. She knows she made it all up, that she makes it all up. The cold tub, filling up with the thick red liquid, drop by drop, would make anybody lose their mind. Especially a child. So there she lies, in her fantasy land, knowing nothing but the room she resides in. And the man at the door? He just stands there. He's keeping her safe, keeping bad people out. That's what he said, what she believes. But in reality she's the one being kept inside, to never leave and never see anything else. Like a wild animal caught in a snare.


The wounds on her youthful skin, carefully carved with a silver blade, one by one, until she is made his beautiful masterpiece. He let her see some of his paintings, and they were oh so beautiful, but oh so terrifying. Children, all of them, some tall, some short, some girls, some boys, some light, some dark, all of them in the same ballroom she is in now. In the same red water, with the same art, painted across their skin. He is an artist, he says. And she believes him. Because why would he lie? He never lies. That's what she believes anyways. 


In reality he is cruel. A man with a lack of emotion, all that's left is a shell, a shell that wishes to create a masterpiece. He told her once that his dream is to create a masterpiece. And that she helps him. That she's special.


You will be okay, he said. Like the marks on her skin aren't permanent. Like the red liquid can just return to her pale body. Like the mind that was corrupted, can once again be restored. And as gullible as a child can be, every word he says is like a glass of clear truth. No shadow, no lie, and no bad reason behind it. If only she knew that every word that dropped out of his mouth was like poison. Slowly killing her. Taking her body, her blood and her sanity. 


Why did he do this? Why is he doing this? She doesn't know. But she doesn't care. Because in her little dreamland, her made up life, she is happy. She is safe. She is loved. And to a little child, that is all that matters. She chooses to believe the lie, rather than hurting from the truth. And even if she wanted to understand the truth, I doubt she could. She is corrupted, tamed, drained, his perfect little masterpiece.


Emotions are part of human nature, whether you want it to, or not. They say “Everyone’s got a good side somewhere deep down” but that is a lie. Any normal person would know that, that is a glorified lie, sprinkled in sugar to spare the wounds. But the child didn’t know that. How could she? A person knows what she is taught, and she never learned about the pain, horror and lies the world kept. Why would he teach her something that could ruin his masterpiece? He wouldn't. He didn't. He won't. 


She won't either. Because she loves him, trusts him, believes every word. The poison is dripping from his lips as he speaks, but her eyes are blinded by the smile his eyes carry. Each promise he makes is wrapped in a veneer of affection, a false warmth that envelops her like a suffocating blanket. She clings to the moments when he is gentle, when his laughter dances in the air, convinced that the darkness will never touch her. Yet, the shadows loom closer, creeping into her thoughts like an unwelcome guest.


He knows how to twist her innocence into a weapon against her, using her love as a tool for manipulation. Every tear she sheds only fuels his power, feeding the monster he has become. She believes that if she loves him enough, he will change, that the sweetness of her devotion can melt away the cruelty hidden beneath his charming facade. But each day, the weight of his words grows heavier, pressing down on her spirit, suffocating her sense of self.


In her heart, a flicker of doubt begins to spark, a whisper that perhaps love should not feel this way. But the chains of loyalty bind her tightly, leaving her trapped in a cycle of hurt and confusion. She longs for freedom, yet fears the unknown that lies beyond his grasp.


As the final breath escaped her lips, the darkness that had consumed her life finally claimed its victory, leaving behind only the haunting echoes of her trust betrayed.