Running.
Charlotte was running.
Where?
Better yet, from what? Or who?
The chilly wind of the cold night was enough to make one's teeth clatter, but she didn't feel the cold one bit. Hell, she was even sweating. It was so dark she could barely see a thing. Thorns bristled past her as she ran, giving her cuts on her pale flesh. She could even feel blood running down her ankle. Just then she tripped over a huge stone. She fell face first into the thicket. Tears ran down her eyes, but she couldn't cry out loud.
Oh, but she cried.
Not for long, though—the witches were after her again, trying to complete their ritual. She tried to stand, but the thicket had turned into a sandpit. The more she struggled, the deeper she sank. She turned left and right, but not a single thing was in sight. And the fact that it was so dark didn't help either.
She thrashed around to no avail, until she saw a hand.
Her master's hand.
He had come to save her.
Joy and hope she didn't know she possessed etched from inside her. He pulled her out of the pit without so much as a struggle. Tears of joy streamed down her face. She had been scared out of her wits. But when she looked at his face, her relief turned to horror.
It wasn't her master—it was a hideous witch. The face was grotesque, twisted with malice, eyes glowing with an eerie light, a mouth full of sharp, rotting teeth.
She had cried silently earlier because she didn't care—she was caught already.
So she screamed.
And boy, was it loud.
So loud that everyone in the mansion had heard it.
Charlotte started with a jolt as she woke up. Her forehead was glistening with sweat beads that rolled down her face, her back too. She was completely soaked. Her feet felt sore, and her soles felt like they were covered in blisters. She stretched her arms and wiped her forehead.
She used her palm as a makeshift fan, blowing some air on her face, trying to cool herself down.
She had a nightmare.
No, a dream.
That was all it was. That was all she told herself it was.
Seriously, why was it so hot in he—
"Charlotte! Charlotte!!" Edith called from the hall that led to the quarters.
The last time someone had yelled her name like that was a few years prior—by her mother, not a very angry Edith.
"Why are you bothering everyone? Don't you see we're trying to sleep?"
She looked around and indeed there were other slaves present, and they all seemed to have been disturbed.
"I'm sorry, I didn't—"
"Save it. Since you wish to wake others up rather than sleep, how about you begin chores early today? Ease the stress of those who actually want to sleep. See it as compensation."
Charlotte felt her heart drop. Literally, she heard the thud, felt the impact.
"The halls need cleaning, Charlotte, and try not to make any more noise while you're at it."
She had tried apologizing again, but it all fell on deaf ears. She didn't even bother protesting, seeing as her efforts would not only be futile but also fatal. She dragged her feet to the hall, even though they were killing her. It felt like she would drop the pail of water she had been carrying any minute now.
Why did her body feel so stiff?
The halls were bright the day before, but seeing as it was only the early hours of day, the whole place was dark and eerie—only illuminated by a few candles and the fire from the hearth, which would soon go out. Sighing, she began her chore. She tried to recount the activities of the previous day—or was it still today?
She had been happy to have a task to distract herself, but after many good hours, she had grown very tired. She didn't even catch any sight of her master again, and her eyes were so heavy that she dropped onto her mattress the minute she caught sight of it.