In the quiet, sunlit garden of an old cottage, a little girl with dark black hair in a bob cut sat alone among a sea of vibrant roses. The air was filled with the fragrance of the blossoms, and the gentle hum of bees buzzed around her. Guinevere was an unusual child. Her eyes, a deep and unsettling shade of green, were fixed intently on something behind a bush. She sat motionless, her gaze unblinking, completely absorbed in whatever had captured her attention.
"Guinevere! Guinevere!" The sound of her mother's voice broke the serene silence of the garden. It was a voice tinged with a mix of exasperation and concern. Guinevere didn't respond, her focus unwavering.
Her mother, a woman of delicate features and soft brown hair, emerged from the house, calling again, "Guinevere, where are you?"
Following the sound of her own voice, Guinevere's mother eventually spotted her daughter sitting amidst the roses. With a slight huff of relief, she approached, her expression softening.
"Guinevere, I was calling out to you! You need to start responding when someone calls your name," she chided gently, her voice carrying a note of frustration. She was about to continue, when she noticed Guinevere's attention was completely absorbed by something hidden behind the bush.
Curious, and with a mother's instinctive concern, she moved closer, peering over the bush. Her eyes widened in horror at what she saw.
There, on the ground, lay a cat, its body convulsing in the final throes of life. Blood pooled around it, its throat grotesquely slit open. The sight was gruesome, but what chilled her to the bone was the small fruit knife clutched in Guinevere's tiny hand, the blade glistening with fresh blood.
A gasp escaped her lips as she grabbed Guinevere by the arm, pulling her up sharply.
"Why did you do that?!" she demanded, her voice a mix of shock and anger. She stared into Guinevere's eyes, searching for some sign of remorse or understanding.
Guinevere simply looked back at her mother, her expression eerily calm. A cold smile curved her lips as she spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.
"So that it won't scream," she said, as if explaining something perfectly rational. "If I cut open its throat, it won't scream."
Her mother felt a shiver run down her spine. The detached way Guinevere spoke, combined with that unsettling smile, made her stomach churn. Without another word, she dragged Guinevere inside the cottage, her grip tight and unyielding. The small girl offered no resistance, merely following along as if being led on a mundane errand.
Once inside, Guinevere's mother took her upstairs, her mind racing with a mix of disbelief and fear. She opened a closet and pulled out two heavy chains, her hands trembling slightly. She attached the clutches to both of Guinevere's ankles, the cold metal clicking into place with a sense of finality. She then fastened the other ends of the chains to a hook high on the wall.
"Stay here and think about what you've done," her mother said, her voice strained with a mix of anger and desperation.
She turned back to the closet, retrieving a mallet, the weight of it feeling both foreign and daunting in her hands. Without another glance at Guinevere, she hurried back downstairs and out into the garden.
Guinevere watched from the window as her mother approached the dying cat. There was a brief moment of hesitation before she raised the mallet and brought it down with a sickening thud, ending the creature's suffering. The blood splattered, and her mother recoiled, a hand flying to her mouth as she struggled to hold back the nausea. She bent over, vomiting into the bushes, her body shaking with sobs.
After regaining her composure, she looked up at the window where Guinevere stood watching, her expression cold and calculating. The sight of her daughter, unflinching and emotionless, sent another wave of fear through her. The two locked eyes, and for a moment, it was as if they were strangers. Guinevere's mother felt a deep, unsettling chill as she realized she couldn't read her daughter's thoughts or emotions. There was an eerie void where there should have been the innocent confusion of a child.
In a brightly lit room, decorated with warm colors and soft furnishings, Guinevere sat on a large armchair, her legs swinging slightly as she gazed around the room. A psychiatrist sat across from her, a kind-looking man with glasses and a gentle demeanor. He smiled at Guinevere, trying to put her at ease. Her mother sat behind her, her hands nervously clasped in her lap.
"So, Guinevere," the psychiatrist began, his voice soft and inviting, "what do you like to do in your free time?"
Guinevere turned her gaze to him, her eyes seeming to assess him with an intensity that made him shift slightly in his seat. "I like watching roses," she said with a small smile, her voice sweet but somehow unnerving.
"That's very nice," the psychiatrist responded, jotting down a note. "Roses are beautiful flowers. They must bring you a lot of joy."
Guinevere nodded, her smile widening slightly. Her mother, watching from behind, forced a smile, though her eyes betrayed her unease.
The psychiatrist continued, "Guinevere, let's say you see someone on the road with a hurt leg. What would you do?"
Guinevere glanced at her mother, who was watching her intently. Then she turned back to the psychiatrist, her face breaking into a bright, innocent smile.
"I'll put them out of their misery, of course," she said cheerfully.
Her mother's face went pale, and the psychiatrist's pen paused mid-scribble. He looked up at Guinevere, masking his surprise with a calm smile.
"And how would you do that?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.
Guinevere's smile grew even brighter.
"I'd give them a Band-Aid!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Relief washed over her mother's face, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The psychiatrist smiled and nodded. "That's very nice of you, Guinevere. Helping someone in need is a good thing."
The session continued with more questions, but nothing as alarming as Guinevere's initial response. Her mother relaxed somewhat, reassured by the psychiatrist's calm demeanor and Guinevere's seemingly innocent answers. However, there was an underlying tension in the room, a feeling that not everything was as it seemed.
As they prepared to leave, the psychiatrist stood and shook hands with Guinevere's mother.
"She's a bright child," he said warmly. "Just keep an eye on her. Sometimes children can say things without fully understanding the implications."
Guinevere's mother nodded, smiling gratefully. "Thank you, Doctor. We'll do our best."
As they exited the office, the psychiatrist turned back to his desk. He sat down, sighing as he glanced at the fish tank on his desk. But then, he noticed something strange. All the fish were floating lifelessly at the top of the tank, their vibrant colors dulled. His brow furrowed in confusion. He leaned closer and saw that each fish had been stabbed with a pen, the ink from the pen swirling in the water, mixing with the blood.
His heart raced as he quickly looked around the room, searching for any sign of an intruder. But the room was as it had been when Guinevere and her mother were there. He sat back in his chair, feeling a chill run down his spine.
Outside, as Guinevere and her mother walked away from the office, Guinevere glanced back over her shoulder, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. Her mother, unaware of the sinister act her daughter had just committed, held her hand tightly, leading her away from the building.
As they walked through the streets, her mother talked about the importance of kindness and empathy, trying to instill in her daughter the values she held dear. Guinevere listened, nodding at the appropriate moments.
"Yeah, mom. I know. I want to be as kind as you when I grow up," little Guinevere said with cheerful smile that put her mother's remaining worries at ease.
"Of course you will, sweetheart," her mother said. "You'll be even kinder than me."
She thought about the fish in the tank, the way they had struggled for breath, and the satisfaction she had felt watching them die. It was a feeling she couldn't quite explain, but it was one she knew she wanted to experience again.
Guinevere's mother, oblivious to the darkness brewing in her daughter's mind, continued to speak, unaware of the cold, calculating thoughts that occupied Guinevere's young mind. The little girl with the dark hair and unsettling eyes was already far from the innocent child her mother believed her to be. And as they walked away, hand in hand, the flowers in the garden seemed to wither, as if sensing the shadow that had passed by.
Guinevere opened her eyes and saw the sunrise. She back into her cage. She looked at the shackle on her left foot. This metal thing resurfaced something she had so carefully locked away. She knew quite well, that it her stuck there. It was Jonah.
She showered, stretched, and sat on the bed.
As Jonah entered the room with breakfast in his hands, she said," Take that away. I want to eat fish today."