Sufferance (Horror Romance)

Chapter 1 (Her)

Monique peeked outside her window. A group of women were making their way toward the front door.

Lavish and posh, their lipstick was smeared to perfection, and their eyebrows were marked in an intricate arch. Oh, how she loathed them.

Inside the comforts of her well-designed room, adorned with extravagant ornaments like paintings from Picasso and other famous artists she never bothered to know the name of, Monique couldn't help but feel frustrated. The constant murmur and the sound of cutlery on the ground floor echoed like a trumpet, mocking her for what she was born into.

Wealth wasn't something she was proud of, nor was it something she wanted. The people, the parties, and the constant questions of "how are you?" and "where have you spent your last vacation?" were nothing but mere pretense from people who wanted to gossip about others. They believed that knowing the dirt and the fall of one another was the pinnacle of living, and life ends at the absence of wealth.

If Monique could, she would spend eternity inside her room, seated in front of her desk with a book in her hand. There, she would rot, away from the never-ending ridicule of her cousins, aunts, and other relatives, of judging eyes and insistence for marriage.

A knock on her door pulled her out of her musings. She slowly rose from her chair and gave herself a once-over in front of her vanity mirror.

"Monique, darling, everyone has been waiting for you. Are you decent? May I come in?"

She took a deep breath, frowned and rubbed her temples. The sing-song voice of her mother was like a fine tune created to assault her ears. It wasn't that she hated her mom; she just couldn't bear her antics about Monique turning eighteen.

In the days leading up to the event, her mother spent hours upon hours discussing the dress, the party, the food, and all the wonderful things that awaited her. Monique felt like a puppet on a string, being dragged up and down the staircase, practicing what her mother referred to as the "perfect descent." She could have screamed and demanded that enough was enough, but she chose not to. With her privileged upbringing, she didn't want to be perceived as a spoiled brat by acting out.

Another sigh, and Monique slowly made her way towards her bedroom door, reached for the knob, and twisted the cold metal ball.

"There you are," her mother cooed, grinning at her like a malicious animal. "The dress looks good on you."

Please stop, Monique mentally pleaded. True, the dress looked great. It was a mermaid-cut blue gown with sequins, adorned with a long train that cascaded behind her. The sapphire-colored crystals carefully sewn on its low V-cut neckline added an extra touch of extravagance. But it was a dress that could never fit her personality. Given the chance, she would have chosen a white, turtleneck, long-sleeved top, and faded jeans. It was her birthday, after all, and she was supposed to have made the decision. But no. That was the price one must pay for being part of the privileged. One must learn to follow and swallow their voice.

As her mother assisted her in descending the circular staircase of their mansion, Monique was instantly greeted by an ear-splitting applause and wide smiles from people she never knew, barely knew, and never would have wanted to know.

The first person to greet her at the bottom of the staircase was her father, Seamus Van Welch, a distinguished looking man riddled with fine lines on the forehead. The man responsible for all the frivolity that surrounded Monique's life. Her father was a sucker for parties but the reason behind was not to socialize. It was to gloat his wealth. A pretentious man whose selfishness was clocked by his wealth. Sewn carefully at the seams of the fabric that caused others' sufferings.

Standing beside him was her brother, Anthony Van Welch, a twenty-four-year-old man with a stupid look on his face, clinging to the sleeve of their father's tux, acting like a grade-schooler. She supposed that was an additional downside to being rich. One was meant to become dependent on the lifestyle they had led, never aiming to stand on their own feet because of the awareness that they had a huge inheritance stashed somewhere.

As she made her way to the living room, a crowd of women instantly surrounded her. Each of them vying for her attention and eager to engage in conversation.

"Look at you. You've grown!" exclaimed Mrs. Jenkins, a close family friend with a warm smile.

"Oh, Monique, do you remember who I am? You spent a few summers with me and my son, Cornelius, back when you were in grade school," said Mrs. Thompson, a kind-hearted woman with a nostalgic gleam in her eyes.

"Monique, do you remember my son, Aldritch? He recently graduated from a prestigious school and is now planning to enter medical school," Mrs. Anderson proudly introduced her son, a tall and ambitious young man.

"How about my son, Monique? You know, the handsome boy who often accompanied you when you went truffle hunting?" Mrs. Ramirez reminded her, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

Insurmountable disgust. That was all she felt as numerous women came to stand in front of her, parading their sons and putting them on a pedestal in hopes of gaining her attention.

Her attention. She supposed they were presenting marriage prospects for her. She wasn't ready. Just because she had turned eighteen, it didn't mean she was ready to be handed off like a prize. However, at eighteen, she must choose a partner. Those were the rules of the Van Welch family. And with people aware of that, one could only guess that they saw it as a way to climb higher in society. Not for love. Never for love.

There were about fifty mothers who blocked her path, and many more as the party continued. But just as Monique felt like she was losing her mind, she found reprieve when her father announced that she was too sheltered and private to discuss marriage proposals at the moment, let alone consider selecting a suitor openly in public. Rarely did she thank her father, but at that moment, she couldn't have been more grateful.

As the hours went by, their house boomed with the voices of women gloating about their new dresses, properties, and the achievements of their children. Some even went as far as proclaiming that their sons had caught the attention of a business tycoon, as if it were some grand accomplishment. The whole scene only intensified Monique's sense of detachment and disillusionment.

Wealth, did it truly mean anything?

Not to her. Wealth could be gained by anyone. However, anything could be obtained with money. Monique thought to herself as the murmurs around her continued. She couldn't help but feel a surge of cynicism. Any level of heightened emotion, prosperity, and evilness could be achieved by anyone willing to do whatever it took to seize it. And to seize it, well, that's when money came into play.

As she shook hands with every person her mother introduced, her eyes couldn't help but linger on a group of gossiping women who had positioned themselves near another that appeared less elegant. The way the wealthier crowd looked and sneered, their eyes rolling at the others, told Monique that the unsuspecting group was the target of their addiction for the day. Yes, addiction. Because for Monique, the never-ending cycle of how others gossiped about one another could only be described as an addiction.

It was ten in the evening when the party finally came to an end. As Monique and her mother guided the last of the visitors to the front door, she couldn't wait to escape upstairs and rip off the dreadful dress she wore, throwing it somewhere she would never have to lay eyes on it again. Perhaps the Sahara desert. But before the front door could be shut, a speeding red car came to a halt in front of their gate.

Monique wasn't one to cater to or gossip with her parents' visitors, but when her mom yelled, "Oh my God. It can't be!" something inside her begged her legs to stay put and await the person from the car to make their way into their home.