❛the life she chose for me❜

ㅤ ALEKSEI

ㅤ “I’ll be home soon. So don’t worry so much, huh?” Maëlle says complacently. Her voice through the call is melodic, and I wonder what she’s up to.

ㅤ “What the hell am I supposed to do?” I squeeze the phone and lean it against my forehead. I don’t even recognize myself. Standing here, martyred by the conversation that has just ended. Waiting for her call was already a hassle, even more so for not being able to tell her the truth—aargh! Fuck it! Now I feel like a complete idiot.

ㅤ I hate her—for everything she’s done. But I hate myself more for not being able to walk away. For still thinking she’s worth saving. Damn the time I met her, that feeling of owing her my life is what makes me say yes to everything that involves her.

ㅤ I mutter in disapproval, “Great advice, really.” The leaf I’ve just slapped frantically shakes. The rich scent of rain-soaked earth fills the air, and I instinctively close my eyes, trying to capture as much as I can, wishing that this moment of warmth remains for eternity.

ㅤ The coffee plantations around me are modest, and the harvest is still a long way off. Even though it’s too early to celebrate, I feel confident. This place is slow, quiet… too quiet. Like a lull before something breaks. For the first time since the day Maëlle brought me here, there isn’t much to make me alert. I feel that all this vigilance is useless. Although it’s noisy, there’s nothing dangerous here.

ㅤ A wide, green view fills the way back home. I finally emerge from the coffee plantation hills after a few minutes and reach the grass near the wooden paddock where the horses are. I stop under the shade of a tree. An emerald lawn surrounds the spacious house, with the differential of the concrete paved driveway.

ㅤ The clouds slowly drift away, and the sun warms up again. The flow of water in the artificial pond is calm, serving as a watering hole for one horse that refreshes. Further down, to my right, there is a vast lake and behind it, a forest. Our house is the last house of this municipality and, beyond the forest, beyond that gigantic wall of mist, it resists the city.

ㅤ I sniff the air assiduously. I’m a considerable distance away, yet I can hear the kettle whistling and shaking with the boiling water in the kitchen. The smell of pie almost makes me tiptoe. Since the day Mrs. Prates discovered that I love sweets, she has been making regular batches. I can’t help but run closer.

ㅤ As I approach the ornamental shrubs in the garden of the house, I clear my throat, put on my best ’everything’s fine’ act. Practice makes perfect.

ㅤ I say in good spirits, “I’m home.”

ㅤ It's like the magazines my father used to bring me back from his travels. Noble parquet flooring made from solid wood structured in a subtle shade of cotton-Egyptian beige, ceramic-tiled walls in a modern Victorian style, having windows that go from the floor-to-ceiling. The natural lighting and birdsong accompany me as I walk through the cozy set of sofas pointed at the fireplace, stepping on the soft carpet, while I follow the intoxicating smell until I reach the kitchen.

ㅤ The lady of entirely white hair smiles at me from ear to ear, “Welcome back, young man.” She dries her hands on the hem of her apron. In short but quick steps, Mrs. Prates approaches me. As she gets closer, I have to lower my head to keep up with her. One of Mrs. Prates’ small hands holds my forearm and the other she uses to gesture, asking me to lower myself to her height, which I do. “My goodness, child. What a disaster. Were you digging yourself into the ground by any chance? Just look at you—covered in mud!”

ㅤ A slight smile forms on my lips. Mrs. Prates gently shakes the dust from my shirt, my eyes close and my chin lifts when I feel the black strands of my hair being stroked. She fusses over you like a son, I remember what Maëlle told me when I came to live here. Are all human mothers like this? So soft, so sure. I don’t understand... but it doesn’t feel bad.

ㅤ “At least you seem to have found the inspiration you were looking for,” Mrs. Prates declares proudly, pointing to the colorful canvas of the painting board I’m holding. I make a face of confusion that is soon undone when I notice the red-haired female figure surrounded by a nature of fire lilies in the painting.

ㅤ I try to explain, “That—uh, about that—it’s not what it looks like.”

ㅤ I hear her laugh, followed by a gentle pat on my back. “Don’t be shy. You're married—it’s only natural for couples to show affection.”

ㅤ Love, my ass. That cunning creature... I’ve lost count of how many embarrassing situations she’s dragged me into. If I didn’t stand to gain something from it, I would’ve buried her by now—just so no one would ever find out I gave up my former post to become... this.

ㅤ The library door closes behind me, sealing me in a haven of complete silence. I exhale deeply, and the muscles I hadn’t even realized were tense begin to loosen. Carefully, I place Maëlle’s ridiculous painting on the wooden easel in the room’s brightest corner, right beside dozens of others like it.

ㅤ Some are unfinished—missing details, or focused on fragments. Others are indecipherable sketches. But they all share two things: that same familiar face… and a landscape that defies imitation. I didn’t even know I had skills beyond tearing and devouring.

ㅤ I avert my gaze, drawn back to the painting. She’s seated atop a tree root, a harp resting gently on her lap, her fingers mid-melody. Wavy red strands fall from her head and spill over the fire lilies below. Her face may mirror Maëlle’s, but the expression in those eyes—and the divinity in her posture—are something else entirely.

ㅤ She’s undeniably dangerous. Not in the way I expected—no, it’s deeper, more insidious. She takes root. She divides me. And even when she seems small and harmless, she spreads like wildfire. I can feel it now—burning inside me, squeezing my heart, making it beat at her command. Draining me.

ㅤ Consuming me.

ㅤ At this rate, I’ll be nothing but a husk. She tortures in the most exquisite ways, I muse, spiraling. I bury my face in my hand, desperate to snuff out this twisted fascination. All this time, I’ve tried everything to break her. All it’s done is make me a collector of endless frustrations. It’s pathetic. Like chasing my own tail.

ㅤ My jaw tightens. The hair on my arms bristle. A cold shiver dances down my spine. I hear it again—whispers, too low to understand, and broken creaks growing louder as they close in. Then, the voice—harsh, gravelly—breathes down the back of my neck with a ghostly ache. “Still denying it?”

ㅤ I don’t answer. I shoot to my feet and head for the nearest bookshelf. “Stop being so selfish,” it growls again. “Where else will we ever find something this pure, in this wretched existence? Be reasonable.”

ㅤ A tired sigh escapes me. I shove the book I read last night into an open slot between others, masking the stabbing pain that now throbs in my arm. The shadow that once slithered only through my thoughts now spills into reality—crawling along the bookshelf, knocking down tomes as it goes. Smoke-like at first, its form slowly solidifies. I feel the weight settle on my shoulders, then on my skull.

ㅤ “For Hel's sake, such ingratitude,” it snarls with a guttural growl. Razor-sharp claws press against my forehead. And through them, I see it—its eye-opening, wide and glowing like a cursed sun.

ㅤ This is getting harder to bear.