Anon stood in the expansive kitchen of the gothic estate, the dim light casting shadows that danced across the walls. The size of the kitchen was overwhelming; it was built for giants, with counters that towered above him. He approached the fridge, a massive structure that felt more like a vault. He grunted as he tugged on the door, finally getting it to swing open with a loud creak.
Inside, it was a disheartening sight. Rows of medical supplies lined the shelves, a stark reminder of the master's illness. He squinted, pushing aside boxes of pills and bottles filled with strange, unidentifiable substances. In the back, he spotted some old meat and a loaf of bread, both of which looked like they belonged in the trash.
"Beggers can't be choosers," he muttered, resigning himself to his fate. He grabbed the meat, noting its questionable color and odor. With a sigh, he turned back to the counter and fished around for a pan.
The stove was equally enormous, its burners big enough to roast a cow. He tossed the meat in, trying to ignore the way it sizzled uncomfortably, and then found a chair that seemed made for someone who had long since left. He took a seat, a small chair at the foot of a table that could fit a hundred people. It was absurd to feel so small in such a vast space, but the weight of his thoughts pushed him down.
As he took a bite of the stale bread, he grimaced. It tasted like seeds and cardboard, a far cry from what he was used to.
"This is awful," he said aloud, trying to swallow. He choked a little but managed to get it down, his stomach protesting with every bite. He scanned the fridge again and found a container of salad that had seen better days. Reluctantly, he took a bite, and to his surprise, it wasn't terrible.
He reached for a drink, a brightly colored fruit beverage that promised refreshment. He took a sip and grimaced again. "What the hell is this?" The taste was foreign and made his head spin. The rancid water he had tasted earlier felt like a luxury compared to this.
After a few more bites of the unpalatable meal, he realized he wasn't really hungry anymore. He stood up, pushing the chair back, and looked around the kitchen, feeling a deep sense of loneliness.
He wandered into the grand dining room, the size of it causing his heart to drop. A long table dominated the room, its surface gleaming even in the dim light. He chose the smallest chair, a comically inadequate piece next to a beautifully ornate chair that seemed to belong to a woman. The chair was bigger than his but not as large as the master's.
"Who sat here?" he wondered, tracing a finger along the chair's intricate carvings. It felt like an empty promise.
Feeling lost in his thoughts, he sat down and stared into the flickering fire. The flames danced, casting shadows across the walls, and he felt a chill creep down his spine. He was the only one in this vast, empty space, surrounded by a history he couldn't understand.
"Time to sleep, I guess," he murmured, pushing himself away from the table. He hoped, desperately, that he would wake up back in his own world.
After his meal, Anon began wandering through the mansion, moving from room to room. The air was thick with dust, and he felt like an intruder in a world that was no longer his own. He stumbled upon family photos lining the walls, but each one had a thick X drawn over it in permanent marker. It made his stomach twist.
"Why would they do that?" he mumbled, stepping further into the house.
He finally reached the grand ballroom, its size breathtaking and terrifying all at once. It looked abandoned, filled with remnants of what had once been a grand celebration. Dust coated everything, and the tablecloths lay crumpled, wilted flowers scattered across the surface.
A yawn escaped him, and he realized he was exhausted. The day had felt like a whirlwind, too much happening in too short a time.
As he turned to leave, he noticed a pink door at the end of the hall, an unusual sight in the otherwise dark and gothic house. It was chained and locked, and curiosity piqued within him.
"Where could the key be?" he wondered, searching his room first. He rifled through desk drawers, pulled clothes from closets, and even crawled under the bed. Nothing.
Just as he was about to give up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
"What the—?" He recoiled, his heart racing.
His face looked different, marked with a strange design that resembled teeth, with two glaring eyes staring back at him. It wasn't paint; it was a tattoo. He felt a cold sweat run down his back as he touched the mark.
"No way… How did I get this?"
He examined his eyes, which seemed to glow in the light, a golden slant that felt unnerving. Then, he noticed something on his neck—a fading bite mark that bore a name: Faytali. It was as if his skin was rejecting the mark, slowly erasing it from his body.
With newfound determination, he thought of the master's room. Surely there had to be a key there. He sprinted down the hall and burst into the master's room. The desk was cluttered with papers, but there, amid the chaos, he spotted a glimmer of metal: the key.
He snatched it up and glanced at the medical reports scattered about. The numbers were enormous and terrifying. He quickly looked away, not wanting to linger on the implications.
Just as he turned to leave, something caught his eye—a photo frame overturned on the desk. He picked it up, and his heart dropped.
In the photo was the master, smiling broadly next to a girl who looked so familiar. She was a teenager, dressed in expensive clothes, her face lit with joy. But he was there, too, looking sad and teary-eyed, as if hiding something deep inside.
"Who is she?" he whispered, a sick feeling settling in his gut.
He grabbed the key tightly and hurried to the pink door. As he unlocked it, the chain fell away with a heavy clang.
"What's in here?" he thought, stepping into the room, the door creaking open.
As he stepped through the threshold, he was hit by the smell of dust and abandonment. His heart raced. It looked like a girl's room, luxurious and meticulously decorated. Medical equipment was scattered across the floor, and crumpled papers lay everywhere.
His gaze fell upon a diary on the edge of the bed, its pages ripped and ink smeared, droplets that looked like tears dotting the paper.
"What happened here?" he whispered, feeling a wave of nausea wash over him.
But then, before he could process it, a vision struck him. He saw a girl in the bed, hooked up to all the medical devices, pale and weak. The image vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him stunned in an empty room.
"Damn…" he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
He recoiled in surprise, the sight of the empty room unsettling him. He took a cautious step inside, surveying the clutter. At the foot of the bed lay a picture that made his stomach churn.
"For your 50th birthday. A human for my precious little girl. My princess."
The words echoed in his mind, and he felt sick. The realization hit him hard; he was a gift. The date on the note was 200006, and there was another picture of him, younger, standing beside her.
He felt a pit in his stomach as he realized he looked sad, while she beamed with joy.
"What the hell is happening?" he murmured, feeling the weight of the world crashing down on him.
He rummaged through the remnants of her life, spotting a scrapbook half-open on the bed. Photos of him and her filled the pages, their lives intertwined in a way he couldn't comprehend. In some pictures, they looked happy, but in others, her smile faded into something more serious.
He turned the pages, feeling a growing sense of connection and despair. The happy girl he had seen transformed into a sickly shadow of her former self. Medical notes piled up next to her photo, detailing her decline.
At the end of the scrapbook was just him, holding her as she cried. The note next to it sent shivers down his spine: "My love. My toy. My human forever mine."
"What…what does this even mean?" he asked, feeling trapped between anger and sorrow. It felt wrong, like he was being reduced to an object.
He touched the last photo gently, a haunting impression lingering in his mind. At the base of the bed, he spotted something glimmering—a red crystal amulet. He poked it with his finger, and a jolt of pain shot through his neck where the fading bite mark was.
"What the—?"
As he pulled his hand away, the amulet began to glow faintly. The pain subsided instantly, and he looked in the mirror. The bite mark was gone.
"I'm free?" he whispered, but why? did he feel so hollow?