Emily leaned down in front of the cracked vanity mirror that leaned against one of the basement walls (Ian had broken it one day in a rage and, concerned with what people might think if they saw it, had hidden it down in the basement). She finger-combed her hair, mussing it up to look like she'd just gotten out of bed, the way Ian liked. She wished she had some make up to work with, but he hadn't thought to bring any down when he was bringing her amenities for her foreseeable imprisonment.
She wasn't sure how long she'd been in her makeshift prison, but she knew she had to at least try something to gain her freedom, no matter how unpalatable the method might seem...
The door at the top of the stairs opened and, hearing her husband descend the stairs, she straightened up, unbuttoning the top several buttons on her blouse, and plastering on an eager smile.
The last thing she wanted to do was submit to her husband's will, but if there was one thing she'd perfected over their years of marriage, it was acting the part...
"I've brought your lunch," he informed her gruffly as he reached the bottom step. If he'd once held any true affection for her, it was no longer apparent in his voice. "I have business to attend to, so I'll be home late. Make your food last 'til then."
"I was actually hoping you might join me," she said sweetly. "It's been so long since we've had the chance to have a meal together. Remember the last time we went out to dinner together?" She hoped the last part sounded more seductive and less like she was choking on the words.
He hummed a note that she couldn't quite interpret. "Why the sudden change of heart?" he asked, brow raised with what she hoped was more curiosity than disbelief.
Her gaze flickered down to the floor, then back up to meet his eyes, playing at coyness. "I'm lonely..." she said, emphasizing the word to be a double entendre. She took a cautious step forward until she could rest her hand on his chest, fiddling deliberately with the top button on his shirt.
"Tu veux que je te tienne compagnie?" he asked pointedly, wrapping his fingers around her wrist to stop her movement and, for a moment, she almost thought he was being tender as his thumb swept along the inside of her wrist.
"J'ai besoin de vous," she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes.
Then, just as she thought she was getting through to him, he wrenched her arm behind her back, making her fall to her knees as she cried out in pain. "You're a fucking liar," he hissed. "You think you can get inside my head so easily? Well, I've changed the locks..."
"Ian, please!" she begged as he continued twisting her arm. "I'm sorry!"
"You'll be fucking sorry..." he vowed. Releasing her, he stomped back up the stairs, leaving her panting and clutching her shoulder in agony. When he came back down the stairs, he threw a rose at her feet.
"Where did you find that?" she asked in a trembling voice, picking up the flower with tentative fingers.
"The better question is, where did you get it?" He laughed unkindly. "Because it seems to me that you deliberately disobeyed me by seeing him again."
"It's just a flower," she insisted. "It means nothing."
"No, it means everything," he retorted. "And since it's so important to you, consider this: either you apologize to me for disobeying me and promise never to see him again before the flower wilts and dies or stay down here until you wither and die."
Traversing the sanitarium corridor, Derek felt like everyone was staring at him, judging him. You don't belong, their eyes seemed to say.
Or, perhaps, they were thinking, You're one of us...
He pulled the hood on his jacket further over his face to hide the twisted skin as he entered the common room where most of the patients milled about, staring blankly at the TV or reading outdated magazines. Even so, he could feel everyone's stares as if his reputation preceded him, even here.
Clearing his throat, he announced his presence, "Hello, Mr. Prentiss." He settled into the seat next to him. "I'm sorry to come here unannounced. I'm..."
"Derek!" he greeted, almost too enthusiastically. "It's you – you've finally come! It's so wonderful to finally see you again!"
"Again?" Derek said slowly, skeptically. "Sir, this is the first time we've met..."
"Have you finally done it?" he continued, reaching over to grip Derek's hand tightly. "Have you succeeded in defeating her?"
"Do what, sir?" Derek asked, confused and concerned. "I'm not sure I understand what you're talking about..."
"The Curse, son," he pressed urgently. "Have you broken it?"
"I'm here about Emily," he said deliberately, choosing to ignore that man's seemingly nonsensical ramblings. "Sir, have you seen lately? No one seems to know where she is..."
The older man's face seemed to blanch at that. He gripped Derek's hand even tighter. "You have to find her," he said urgently. "She's in trouble and you're the only one who can save her. She's always saved you, son, now it's time to repay the favour."
"I'm afraid I still don't understand..."
"They'll be conspiring to keep you apart, lest you bring down everything they've worked for – the two of you are the only ones who can..."
Derek might've asked further questions, but before he could, a hand landed on his shoulder, startling him. Turning in his chair to see who it was, expecting someone come to stare at the freak, he was confused and perhaps a bit taken aback by the woman staring deep into his eyes as if examining his very soul.
She gripped her fists in his jacket until her fingers turned white. "'Til the last petal falls," she whispered urgently. "The last petal," she repeated, "The last petal..."
Before either of them could say anything more, a young man came jogging up, offering an apologetic smile to Derek. "Mom, it's okay," he soothed the woman, gently prying her fingers from Derek's clothes. "Let's go back to your room, okay?"
"The last petal," she repeated again as the younger man lead her away.
Emily's father nodded sagely as if he understood perfectly.