The floor felt cold beneath my feet as I walked further into the unfamiliar house.
Everything was too modern—no candles or complicated chandeliers, only artificial lights glowing softly from glass bulbs on the ceiling. The sharp scent of cleaning agents and perfume lingered in the air, not the scent I was used to.
I approached the cracked wedding photo again. It's size towering over me.
For a relationship that was build in toxicity. They sure looked like happy couple, somehow it was something that triggers unpleasant memories.
We were happy like that too. At least, I thought I was.
I traced my hand over it. On far right side at the bottom was written, in a silver ink:
> "To Allesha, my forever. – Damien."
Lies.
I almost wanted to vomit. Forever my ass.
Damien,huh? That's the name I will burn into my memory. Damien Seres.
My new husband. He was a different man, but also felt so familiar. The same breed of serpent, only in a different skin. And if fate had decided to throw me back into another betrayed wife's body, then so be it.
I would simmer all this hatred and pour it into this life of hers.
I moved around the house until my feet brought me into a room like an instinct, examining every corner. I twisted the doorknob and what welcomed me was a storage rather than a room. If Allesha's memory serves me right, this is where she live. Even the bathroom is bigger than this.
My gaze shifted at the crumpled blanket tucked in one side of the room. How could she let herself be treated like this? That's not human.
As I go further inside the house, I wandered across one giant bedroom. Possibly, where her husband room is.
The room is in pristine condition, the blanket folded carefully. It's about 10 times bigger than the room Allesha was staying in.
I cracked the closet open, and inside were pristine suits and dresses. Obviously, none of them mine. On one of the shelves, tucked beneath a box of perfume bottles with different labels, and behind that was a diary. It was bound in pink leather. In the cover, in gold letters that read "Allesha's Journal."
Why was that in Damien's room? Strangely, none of her memory came up.
I pulled the lock open.
The entries were written in small, shaky handwriting. Each page was drenched in pain.
There were passages about Damien's late nights, about him not touching her anymore. Notes about Margot—her best friend—who had started coming around more often. The way they laughed in the kitchen while she cried in the bedroom.
Margot.How interesting that the name wasn't far from Margarette. Almost like the fate playing games. Another snake hiding in a friend's skin. Like a cliché story.
> "He says I'm too emotional. But Margot says I just overthink too much. Maybe I do. But why do I feel like they've started to isolate me from them?"
> "I found her earring under the bed. When I asked, Damien said I was imagining things again and that it was mine. He said he is so tired of me. I'm tired of me too. But I never wore those kind of earrings."
> "I'm sorry, Mom. I just wanted someone to love me."
The entry was old, some of the ink was faded because it was wet with tears possibly.
I kept flipping it until I reached the end, there were tear marks in it. As if the last pages had been ripped away in a hurry.
I closed the diary with shaking hands.
The rage inside me was now boiling. It wasn't just Esther who had been betrayed. Allesha had been quietly bleeding long before she cut her wrist in that cold bathtub. I felt her pain in my chest like her memories are extensions of my body. And it made the flame inside my heart burn brighter.
"I won't be like you, Allesha, I won't be crying." I muttered.
A knock at the door startled me. It was sharp, consecutive and impatient. But I ignored it.
"Allesha! What the hell are you doing? The floor's a mess!" a woman's voice barked. My brow furrowed.
But before I could respond, the door burst ed open.
An aged woman entered. Thin, harsh features. She was wearing a gray dress and apron. Her graying hair tied in a tight bun. She held a rolled-up paper—no, a map, curled and stained with water from the floor.
"Hey! Didn't the Young Master told you not to enter his room?!" she scolded.
"Why not?" I asked. It doesn't make sense. No matter how bad he treated me, I'm still his wife in name.
She smacked it against her palm, then pointed it at me.
"You're not going to play crazy again, are you? This is why Master Damien hates you!" she scolded again instead of answering my questions.
"You're always such a mess. Master Damien has guests today. Clean up. And don't you dare look at him with that face like a lost dog."
The voice was like sandpaper against my ears. How dare a mere maid scold me like that? I can let it pass or maybe I won't–if she was someone with high stature but a maid?
Then, a flash of memory came rushing inside my mind cutting inside it like thunder accompanied by a sharp pain. The I turned to glare at the woman.
Her.
She's the same woman who had slapped Allesha down again and again in her own home. Her face is so vivid in my memories. The same type that would snicker behind her back and would often deny me of food. The one who believed herself superior because she had Damien's favor and had been with the family for years, and that Allesha was a discarded wife thrown aside by her useless husband.
"You're dripping all over the damn place—"
I stepped forward.
"What are you—?" she didn't finish.
My hand came up and struck her across the face, hard and fast. That the map fell to the floor.