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It is Wednesday the Xth of X, your third day in this ominous, bleak household. The first day you woke up, you were greeted by the unnerving smile of…definitely something. A ghastly white face with glassy, doll-like, vantablack irises. Sickeningly dark eye bags scrunched up underneath the abyss-like eyeballs, both atop an ear-to-ear grin that exposed a row of tan, poorly maintained teeth. The creature’s joy at your awakening must have been unimaginable, its hollow cheeks and narrow nose deeply flushed, its thin knitted eyebrows perfectly topping this maniacally pleased look.
When light began to seep in and clear your vision, the next thing that caught your eye was the hair. The long, silky, black hair lay on the strange little thing’s head, that for a reason you did not know even now, seemed to be stuck to the ceiling by its ends. A bony dark hand rested on your thigh, belonging to the one sitting at the edge of your bed. This pure nightmare fuel had eventually told you its name—Sarkhollin. Kwang Sarkhollin. And in your first meeting, you soon found out this was apparently your darling boyfriend, Khol.
According to Khol, you two had been together for two years. You met at a bar one night and ran into each other from time to time. As he yarned to you, he acquired your number after weeks of visiting an antique shop. He ran into you there once and he so hoped to find you there once more—and of course, he did—and the rest was history. History that you knew nothing of.
You saw the receipt for the chandelier, even the ugly piece of furniture itself hanging in the hallway, but you did not remember. He had smiled fondly, face glowing red and flustered at this supposed shared memory when he told you about it, but you did not remember. It was the day Khol fully entered your life after l̶u̶r̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ waiting shyly in the doorway for so long, but you did not remember.
As a matter of fact, you remembered nothing at all. When you awoke two days ago, you did not even remember your name. You did not know where you were or if this was where you belonged. You couldn't do anything but trust the words of the gaunt bug-eyed man who for some reason absolutely loved to feed you. Frequently.
Even as of now, you were awaiting another dish of his. He insisted on making you cupcakes. Strawberry flavored. He said it was your favorite. But you couldn't even remember what a strawberry looked like, let alone tasted like.
You watched him as he stirred a pink batter, humming ever so softly to himself. “Lays me down, with my mimd she runs...” a string of audible lyrics reaches you. Almost familiar. Like you heard this tune in a dream once.
He abruptly stops humming. “How is your head, my love?”
You perk up, adjusting your hands in your lap. “It's… it's okay,” you reply. “It doesn't hurt as much right now.”
He sighs. Not a relieved sigh, but not a frustrated one either.
“This will surely help.” You can hear the grin in his voice as he continues to stir. The audible sigh he let out sounded a mix between pleased and relieved, but you had no idea what he could have possibly been holding his breath for.
Bored with the wait, you rise from the kitchen table and approach him at the counter. His head quickly turns to you when you enter his peripheral vision. The corners of his lifelessly grey lips teased a smile.
“Something wrong, my dear?” He speaks in a warm tone, such a juxtaposition to his nightmarish face. You shake your head, eyes drifting to the ingredients on the counter—Eggs, milk, oil, flour, and—You squinted.
“Is that sugar?” you question, pointing to the floppy sack. “Yes,” Khol ceases his stirring. “Do you not like sugar?” He slightly cocks his head, strands of fine hair shifting in front of his wide eyes. He questions you as if he doesn't know all of your preferences, like he couldn't recite 20 of your most reviled things if you asked him to.
“N-No, I'm just..” you trail off, observing the sugar. While the knowledge of what this condiment is was fuzzy in your mind, among many other things, you couldn't help but notice it looked a little off. You knew this much was true, granulated sugar is white. This sugar had a strange color—White, yes, but in some areas were speckled bits of beige, other places ever so faintly dotted with.. pink? If your vision had been any worse, you would not have noticed.
“Is it supposed to look like that?” You timidly ask. Khol slowly turns to the sugar and back to you, the little kindness in his unsettling eyes faltering for a flash. His grip tightens on the whisk in his hand..“Why, of course,” He grins, letting it go. He dips his bony index finger into the sack, lightly mixing the surface. The discolored specks swirled into oblivion, lost within the rest of the pure white grains.
He retracts his finger, the slender digit coming out covered in dots of sugar. Oddly enough, they stuck like glue even though his hand was dry.
He steps closer to you, raising his sugar-coated finger to your lips. “Try it,” He winks. “Sweet as candy.”
Khol leans into you, face suddenly striking with color as his lips quiver in a restrained, almost psychotic, smile.
“No thanks!” You hold your hand out between his finger and your lips, taking a small step back. He pouts, half lidding his eyes, somewhat making his massive eyes appear normal. Somewhat.
He pulls himself back, standing straight once more. The sugar-coated finger trails to his own lips as he looks at the light pink batter. “I'll have you know, my hands are very clean.”
He almost looks offended at your rejection. In an instant, the sugar is gone. His tongue was like a darting Mexican king snake, pitch black and quick-moving to swipe it all up. You shudder. You knew his tongue was dark from the absence of color in his mouth when he laughed, but now a second disturbance rattles you in finding out how much it truly resembles a preying snake. Another reminder that it didn't matter what he did or said or how he made you feel. Sarkhollin was not human.
He quickly rinses his slimy finger, flicking his wrist a few times before returning to his task. “Pass me the strawberries, please?” He says, now slowly whisking the batter. He notices your slight daze wondering where they are. “In the fridge, honey,” He chuckles.
“Right,” You nod, turning to the appliance next to you. Opening the larger door, you find it sparsely filled. A sandwich in a zip-lock bag, a clear container of spaghetti with questionably brightly colored sauce, a box of… “Hot pockets?” You mutter the odd name.
“The only fruit in the fridge, dear,” Khol chimes in. He seems amused at your curiosity about the package of, quite literally, super-sized pizza rolls.
You grab the bowl of fruit, admiring the shiny bright red color of them for a moment. They look right out of a movie. “These look amazing,” you comment as you pass him the bowl. “Where'd you buy strawberries this pretty?”
“The secret of a masterful chef,” He replies playfully, reaching for the bowl. “Only the best for my little angel.”
His hand lingers on yours atop the cold glass. “My little angel,” He emphasizes, eyes growing wide again. In the light of the kitchen, you can almost see the glimmer in his eyes grow. They held all the wonder of a child watching a kaleidoscope of blue morpho butterflies ascend from a field of fully bloomed zinnias. As if in a trance, he is unable to take his gaze off of you.
“You are truly exquisite, my dear,” He breathes, voice as reverent as a priest before a statue of the Blessed Virgin. Nearly subconsciously, he slowly leans into you again. Though taken aback by his sudden adoration of you, you can't help but smile. “Khol..” You feel the heat rising in your cheeks. You look away, unable to bear the attention.
He suddenly blinks rapidly, frozen in embarrassment. “Ah—Forgive me..” He takes the bowl, proceeds to open the tap, and places the strawberries underneath to rinse.
He is laser-focused on the strawberries, but you can tell the rest of him is recovering from that sudden spell of his—His chest rose and fell noticeably quicker.
Disposing of the water with a strainer, he speaks once more. “You know, these are my favorite kind,” He grabs a few paper towels, gently rubbing them over the berries. “Mara de bois, they're called,” He informs you.
Khol picks a single berry, the little thing like a marble compared to his large, bony hands. “Come, look,” He beckons you. You step over to his side, joining in his observation of the tiny berry.
“They're the best. The smallest and the sweetest.”
He faces you. “Just like you,” He lovingly remarks, cheeks flushing once more. When you open your mouth to respond, you find yourself silenced by his finger against your lips. He singlehandedly removes the berry's green cap and switches the position of his hands to hold the clean strawberry to your mouth. As he does all of this, he doesn't take his eyes off of you. Had he blinked at all in this seeming eternity of a moment?
“Eat.”
The tone of his voice drops in his single worded demand. It almost didn't sound like him. A little unnerved, you obeyed, accepting the strawberry. You cringe at the brush of his fingertip against your teeth.
Khol is pleased at your compliance, closely watching you chew. “Sweet, right?” He asks, licking the tiny bit of juice residue left on his finger. You nod slowly. You wanted to break eye contact, but you didn't. You couldn't.
Giving you a quick toothy smile, he minds the strawberries again. He grabs a wooden board and empties the glass bowl onto it. Quickly reaching for a drawer below the counter, he opens it and pulls out a sharp, thin knife.
As he briefly rinses it, he says to you, “I'd let you help me cut these strawberries, but I can't risk you damaging that beautiful, soft, uncalloused skin.” His eyes linger on your hands resting on the counter.
“That knife shouldn't touch those hands,” He states. “That's my job,” he barely mutters, piercing a strawberry right down the middle. The sudden sharp noise makes you jump a bit, your startledness noticed by Khol.
“Ah.. forgive me again dear,” He apologizes, putting his free hand over his cheek. “Go on, have a seat,” He gestures to the rest of the room, “instead of having to suffer through these… sudden movements of mine.”
His words are let off with a kind smile. But even as he is facing you, he somehow continues to perfectly decap, dice, and push aside each berry as if he were in some sort of unbroken laser-focused flow state. But no, his eyes were not at all on the razor sharp knife or the berries. They were where he always had them. On you.
Taking his advice into consideration, you retreat. Seeing as Khol likely wouldn't need your help for a while—or at all, as a matter of fact—you decide to head to the couch to rest. As you sat still in the open spaced living room, the faint sound of chopping tunes out of your ears as your mind wandered.
You still had so many questions. So many suspicions. So much unease. Why were all the windows boarded? Why was the TV unplugged? Why were the walls so bare? Why was the house so bare? So dead.
You glance at the cushion beside you. A day ago, Khol sat here with you, hands intertwined, trying to explain why you were kept here. You begged him to let you stay here. You begged him not to take you to the hospital. He wasn't trying to imprison you. He was trying to honor your wish and help you, even though he admitted he was terrible at it.
You look up toward the man in the kitchen. He loomed over the counter, hair ominously suspended, his motions terribly mechanical. If you weren't a dazed amnesiac, you would have laughed at him; a grown man in a frilly pink apron. It makes you want to smile, but the corner of your lips stay flat.
This grown man wasn't even a man. Not mankind. A monster. No amount of cute breakfasts and intimate compliments would ever change that.
Troubled by your own mind, you sigh and lift your legs onto the couch, laying down on your back. Appease him, you thought. Do what he loves to watch you do. Sleep.
Why, oh why, did all the windows and doors have to be locked?
. . .
You two sat against the wall, Khol's hand on yours as you listened to the music. He took one earbud, you had the other.
“Who wrote this song?” You questioned, looking at the portable player in Khol's lap. He clicks his tongue, twirling a strand of silky hair around his finger as he thinks. “I wanna say… The Stranglers?”
“The Stranglers,” You repeat, raising a brow. “What a grotesque name for an artist with such a majestic song,” You comment with a chuckle.
Khol shrugs, pausing the record player. “I like it,” he says. “The song or the band name?” you ask, cocking your head. He laughs, nearly dropping the CD player. “The song, silly,” Khol rolls his eyes. “Why would it be the name?”
“Because you're weird,” you reply, nudging his arm. “Well, you're weirder,” He sticks his tongue out at you.
“I like this song because it reminds me of you,” He admits, tracing his finger over yours. His eyes rest on both of your hands, his finger still slowly tracing back and forth over yours.
“How so?” You ask, briefly shuddering. His finger tickles.
His cheeks grow rosy. “With you, never a frown,” he almost sounds shy as the words leave his mouth. You smile at him. His other hand reaches for you, cupping one side of your face. You see how much wider his pupils have dilated as you face him eye-to-eye.
“Would you really describe my shade as golden brown?” You joke, trying to lighten the sudden heavy, intimate atmosphere. Butterflies fill your stomach, heat rushing to your own face.
“Hmm..” he tilts his head. “Well, you're definitely my golden brown,” he comments.
“Alluring and addictive."
The last thing you see is his dorky grin before the music distorts into a blur of acoustic noise, the walls melt, and your hands are no longer holding his, but the silhouette of his face remains.
“Cupcakes are done, my angel.”
Your eyes focus, the blur of Sarkhollin's face becoming clear again. Only now, his face is sunken in and colorless, save for the seemingly perpetual redness on his cheeks. An unsightly view to wake up to.
He's hovering over you, a few strands of his knotless hair tickling your face. You have no idea how long he had been standing there.
“Were you,” you swallow, “watching me?” Your question is low, voice laced with nerves. Khol grins, slowly casting his gaze in another direction. “Not for long, love,” he titters.
His black eyes shoot back to you. “Did you dream of me?” He asks all too quickly, standing up straight. He takes your hand and helps you up, smiling expectantly.
“I guess,” you shrug. “You guess,” He narrows his eyes. They shot right open again. “Anyway,” He walks toward the kitchen, leading you with your hand still in his.
When your sense of smell shortly wakes up after you do, you're hit with a sweet, warm aroma. The kitchen is bathed in a scent of vanilla, almond, and strawberry.
“They came out wonderfully,” He gushes, dropping your hand and practically flying to the tray of dessert. “Now, everyone knows dessert comes after the meal, but..”
He plucks a cupcake from the tray. “You're too special to deny,” He remarks, turning back to you.
“Come, come,” He beckons you to the wooden table. You sit yourself down, and he takes his usual place on the corner, chin resting over his hands. Smiling. Watching. The distance between you two feels all too long and all too short at the same time.
He places the cupcake in front of you. The treat is a salmon pink color, tiny chunks of red visible on it from behind the translucent white liner surrounding it. The surface is decorated with a white cream, the peak topped by a half of the tiny fruit. Over the berry a fine white powder is dusted. Like everything he makes for you, it looks good. Too good.
Khol's eyes bore into you as you scrutinize the cupcake. “Well?” A cat-like smile plays on his lips. You aren't hungry. Not at all long ago, you had a normal looking sandwich.
“Thank you, Khol, but I think I'm feeling a little..” you watch as his smile begins to falter. “..nauseous. I'd rather not eat right now.”
His lips fall into a thin line. “Nauseous?” He questions. “How come?”
You shrug. “I just don't, uhh, feel very good. Maybe later?” You nervously smile. Khol doesn't return your smile.
“I’m sure its nothing, honey,” He pushes the cupcake closer to you with his finger. “Besides, you love strawberry flavored things. You know, before you became unwell, you'd always ask me to buy you strawberry stuff—Strawberry milk, strawberry pocky, strawberry twizzlers—you even wanted me to buy a strawberry apron before you saw this one!” He points to his pretty pink apron.
“Khol, please. I don't want—”
“Why?” His voice cuts through your own. “Don't you appreciate this? I baked you an entire tray of cupcakes and you don't even want one?”
He moves from his spot, taking your hands into his. “Please, baby?” He pleads, his tone now soft. “I try my best to make you happy. This would make me very happy,” He continues, drawing circles on your palm. You still can't get over how fabricated his skin feels, if you can even call it skin.
You frown at him. When you try to pull your hand back, his grip suddenly tightens. Not enough to hurt you, but enough to give you a scare.
He picks up the cupcake, still using his other hand to keep yours in place.
“You'll love it,” He says, more like stating a command than a mere hope of his.
“My love,” He raises it to your lips. “Eat.”
You begin to shake your head, but you cease when a splitting pain suddenly violates your skull. You whimper quietly, still refusing.
He pushes the cupcake against your lips, the frosting coating the tip of your nose. His eyes are bleak, somehow seeming blacker than usual.
“I said eat,” He repeats himself. The surprise headache grows, the pressure like a descending hydraulic press on your head. Your lips part slightly, groaning in protest as he further pushes the cake onto you.
He crouches, bringing himself to eye level with you. The bottomless pits of his irises bore into yours. “My dear. You will eat this cupcake and you will like it,” He demands.
Spots of grey and black begin to speckle your vision as he continues to coerce you. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Why does your brain always feel like its about to explode when you upset him in the slightest way?
Unable to fight back, you let your jaw go slack, the cake finally reaching the inside of your mouth. The corner of his lip twitches. He releases your hand from his, only to move his own to the back of your head.
Your mouth opens a little wider, the cupcake beginning to crumble as it reaches your tongue. Frosting falls on his bony finger, crumbs falling into your lap as he continues to forcefully feed you.
In truth, it didn't taste bad. Very sweet. A little too sweet, like he doused every surface of the cupcake in a tooth rotting honey before serving it to you. But the sweetness was off. It wasn't a sugar sweet. It was like saccharine. Like everything he seemed to be to you—Mimicking. Fake.
He mutters a slew of words incomprehensible to you. Sound bleeds and blurs in and out as the black and grey spots take over. You feel as if you're choking, but you can't cough.
Your breaths come out short, chest rising and falling rapidly. Your throat just barely croaks in protest. You hear him hush you as his hand gently strokes the back of your head.
Soon, there is nothing left but the lining. Well, besides the mountain of crumbs and the half strawberry left in your lap.
His eyes glare lifelessly into yours, which were only now slightly opened, irises rolling into your skull. Even though you could no longer hear him—for your were no longer conscious—Khol spoke to you softly. His hand continued to stroke your hair, his eyes now half lidded. His scleras grew glossy as he watched your pitiful state. Passed out, mouth open, stained with frosting and pink crumbs from your face, onto your shirt, and in your lap.
A tear runs down his colorless cheek. His eyes flutter shut. The man pulls you close to him, resting his chin on your head. He plants a kiss into your hair and sighs.
“I’m sorry, but it must be this way, my love.”
He twirls a lock of your hair in his finger.
“I'm so sorry.”