Prologue

00 | Orbs of Sight 🥀

( round dance ~ béla bartók )

Like that of a thousand fragments of polished jade, the still and brutal air of the Meyer Mansion splinters late into the night. It flings itself across expensive masonry along the walls and spirals up the granite staircase, passing from room to room with ease. An unsteady echo lingers by the door at the end of a softly lit hallway, staring wearily into a darkened room.

Anna wakes with fright, her mind roaming and her brow covered in sweat. She stares into the dark, sitting up, shoving herself off the bed and onto the floor just as her feet snag in the sheets and She falls back on a stack of totes.

She cries out in shock, her palms smacking the wooden flooring, stinging angrily. She struggles to get herself off of the floor, and when she does, stands awkwardly against empty walls and fleshed-out green carpet.

Her thin limbs trembled in the dark.

The sound of muffled voices, then a loud grunt, freezes Anna's blood, mouth going dry. A terrifying scream erupts from downstairs, and Anna forces her trembling hands to grasp onto a small brass knob, grinding her teeth and arching her back against the door. An attempt to shove open the tightened hinges.

Another set of shrieks reach the stairs. "LEAVE THEM ALONE!" she screams with one last push.

Hinges bust as the last of the bolts shift, sending a shock wave through Anna's body as she falls into the hallway. Landing roughly on her knees, she pulls herself up quickly and sprints down the hall, slapping at the walls.

Anna runs down the stairs, bare feet aching when she hits the bottom of the stairwell. She rests a hand along the railing to catch up with her heavy breathing. She throws her head back, closing her eyes to listen. Anna notices an unexpected breeze drafting in from a window nearby.

Focusing her attention, Anna takes a small step forward, peering down the dimming Family Hall—an elaborate walkway of beautiful photographs and oil paintings dedicated to relatives she's never met.

Anna holds her breath as she slinks in the shadows, and eventually, a flickering light in the living room catches her attention.

A barstool lamp shines brightly, illuminating broken glass as it leads off into Mother's perfect kitchen. Anna's face darkens. "Mother," She calls out. "Mother, are you in there?"

No one answers. Setting her jaw, Anna follows the glittering stream, one flimsy foot in front of the other. She reaches the corner and pauses. I'm almost there, she reminds herself before stepping forward. Almost there...

There. Father lies on the kitchen panels, limbs splayed out in awkward angles. His hair matted, strands falling into his eyes, and sweat glistening on his forehead.

Anna cries out sharply, dropping to his side. Then she sees the knife. A finely designed short blade brushes against Father's fleece nightshirt. Lodged in his ribcage, the blade drags upwards at every inhale, every breath short and ragged.

"Oh, Father," Anna says softly as she reaches for his pale hand—slightly damp, and cool to the touch. She looks around with frantic eyes for something, anything to help ease his pain.

"Father," She coos, leaning down to kiss Father's forehead, swiping at his bangs.

Blood.

There was so much blood.

Father coughs, spit dribbling from his lips, wincing at the pain. "My sweet Ann," He whispers faintly. He shifts his head towards his only child and then gives her a soft smile. "My sweet, sweet Ann."

Tears fall as Anna pulls Father's salt-licked face up onto her lap, and he groans in pain. Not Father, she thinks. Who's constantly been an able-bodied man of good morals and even greater strength in his words?

Not Father—who dances in the puddles on a rainy day; who laughs at the sun under the shade of the tree; who sings me to sleep during the darkest of nights. "Father," Anna breathed. "Oh Father, please."

Blood.

It seeped into the air, staining the carpet in patterns and splattering itself along the walls. Drip-drip-dripping from the ceiling. Anna blinks back hot tears as though they stung, gulping for air against the overpowering smell. She couldn't breathe, couldn't--

Wailing, Anna cups Father's stiff fingers to her cheek, her tears continuing to fall.

She wouldn't help, couldn't help him...

Father's once maple-brown eyes had been plucked from his face. Only craters of dislodged veins and tissue left behind.

A thick black river spilled over stained cheeks, his cold blood leaving its mark on her trembling hands. It continued to pool beneath their trembling bodies, soaking into her linen robes.

He was gone.