Monique

Pretence

"She knows too much."

"She's our daughter, Henry!"

"What about all the others before her? We can always have another one who isn't such a pain in the neck."

"She wasn't supposed to go in there."

"But she did."

Monique groggily opens her eyes. She can't believe she's here again as her eyes adjust to the bright white room. She's in Room 264. She can tell by the small diagonal cracks on the ceiling. And the room still stinks of disinfectant. She turns her head slowly to find her parents beside a large machine talking about her.

Her dad looks pissed. Her mum, defeated. Monique doesn't know what's going on. She doesn't know how she got here. Hell, she doesn't even remember how old she is. Her mum looks at her and gasps as she hurries towards her bed.

"Hello, sweetie. Welcome back." Monique instantly recoils from her. She stinks of lavender. Monique hates lavender.

"What's going on?" She asks as she forces herself to sit up. Her body is going to be a bitch later and pay her back with a headache. Monique doesn't care.

"You fell down the stairs," Her father replies gruffly. For some reason, Monique wants to run from him. But she can't remember why. She looks at his hands. They're clenched at his sides. His eyes are hard and piercing. Eye never lie.

"Which stairs?"

"The one at home sweetie," Her mum replies as she reaches out to stroke Monique's hair.

Monique backs away and says, "I don't like people touching my hair."

But someone else did. Someone used to run their fingers through her hair. She can't remember who. The person didn't smell of lavender, but mint.

She racks her brain. Flashbacks and people zap through her mind like a slide show going at the speed of light.

John.

Jimmy Timms.

Rosalie.

John.

John.

John.

"Who is John?" She blurts out. Her father frowns.

Her mother's face drops but she instantly stifles it. "I'm sorry sweetie but we don't know who John is."

Monique sinks back into her pillow. "Who is Jimmy?" Her father pales. Monique has struck a nerve. Something is going on. She doesn't know whether to shut up and run away from them until she has answers. Instead, she yawns and goes back to sleep.

She doesn't have nightmares. Her brain is too exhausted.

She leaves the hospital the next day. The ride home is quiet. Stale. Silence engulfs the car like a bad odour. Monique is tempted to scroll down the glass window but stops just in time.

The car pulls up outside the cream and gold house. Monique can't ignore the sense of fear and dread, feasting inside her lungs. She takes her bag from the seat beside her and follows her parents into the house. It's eerie quiet and.... shiny. And it also reeks of disinfectant.

Someone has gone into a lot of trouble to clean up the place.

"Monique."

Monique turns around. "Yes?"

Her mother looks at her strangely. "I didn't call you." Monique nods and turns away. Her shirt has suddenly become uncomfortably tight and stuffy.

"Monique. Monique." It's a child's voice. She has heard it before somewhere, but can't remember where.

Monique takes the small duffel bag from the counter is about climbing the stairs when she hears her name being called again. She strains herself to where the noise is coming from. She doesn't have to think of the direction of the voice. It's instinct. She reaches out to the door on the left when a high pitched shrill stops her.

"Don't go in there!"

"Why?" Monique retorts as her mother pushes her away from the door.

"That is your father's private space. We're not allowed in there."

Monique grunts and heads upstairs. Since when did her father become a patriarchal beast from hell?

Monique easily finds her room and opens the door. It's neat. Tidy. Maybe it's too tidy. Monique smells suspicion.

She doesn't remember leaving the room like this.

She drops the bag on her bed and stands in front of the mirror.

She's pale. Gaunt. Stricken. Her eyes are two big hollow balls in her head. Her red hair lies flat and dead on her shoulders. Her fingernails are chipped. Her hands marred with scars.

Something is not right.

She sighs and slumps her shoulder. She notices a small stain on the mirror and reaches out to clean it.

Her hands touch the surface and she hears them.

She sees them.

They howl out her name.

They claw the walls.

"Save us."

Monique pulls back and they disappear. She places a hand on her chest. She's breathing hard. Her heart is lodged inside her trachea. She wants to run out of the room, but is.... oddly fascinated.

"Monique."

She spins around, almost falling to the floor. His blonde hair falls over his shoulders. His arms are covered in scars. He's pale and sickly thin.

Monique has no time to react. He wraps his hand around her head and leans in towards her.

Something clicks in Monique's brain. "John."

What he says next makes her blood freeze.

"Run."