Author’s POV
Amy had believed that no one could be as stubborn, crazy, selfish, and an outstanding manipulator as her. But she had forgotten that all her traits came from her father. And now she was driving her car, with Mr Park in the passenger seat beside her, giving that bright sunny smile she had last seen when she was a kid. She didn’t dare glance at him, keeping her gaze steady on the road, acting as if the person beside her didn’t exist.
Mr. Park: Thanks for giving me a ride; we were going to the same place anyway.
He blurted casually, peeking a glance at her and the bouquet resting in the back seat. Amy didn’t reply, barely acknowledging his presence. But those words slightly made her left eye twitch; he sounded as if he were a cheerful neighbour who had asked for a favour and she had given it so delightfully.
Which was not. At all. The scenario.
Mr. Park had smiled, spoken sweetly, and manipulated her in meaningless questions and answers, and the next thing she knew was driving a car with Mr. Park in the passenger seat next to her and having to visit the very same location out of God’s grace.
Amy had planned to visit her mom’s memorial today, and out of all Godly coincidences, Mr. Park happened to cross her path with the very same motto, and as evidence that he wasn’t lying, he had a bouquet of red roses.
Mr. Park: You always gave her white lilies.
He spoke, glancing at the lilies carefully placed in the backseat.
Mr. Park: When you were gone for two years, they were always there when I visited. I doubted if I was thinking too much; it turns out I was right. It was always you, wasn’t it?
For the first time in the 20 minutes of the drive, Amy had reacted; she exhaled sharply, her hands tightened on the steering wheel, which her father didn’t fail to notice. He had already analysed that expression and concluded the oozing grudge and anger in her body language. Though it feigned nonchalance, deep down, she had been caught off guard. Her father had noticed. And he was right. It was always her.
The car came to a halt as Amy killed the engine, yanking away the car keys from the dashboard.
Amy: We have arrived.
Three words. With that, she lunged out of the car, slamming the door shut behind her, as she took the lilies from the backseat, simply walking away, not sparing a glance at the elder who had been coldly abandoned by his daughter. Mr. Park only smiled at her childish antics. He stepped out of the car with his bouquet following behind her.
By the time his slow steps reached the memorial grave of his wife, Amy had halfway ripped out the small weeds that were starting to cover the emerald gravestone. She cleaned the stone efficiently, the breeze hitting her face from the sea that whirled through the waves at a distance, creating sounds that made the surroundings peaceful.
The birds chirped at a distance; the place was warm and lush, unlike the cold winters that occasionally hit through the year. The place only held her mother’s memorial; the yard was a regularly maintained garden, and the trees that surrounded the place were covered in orange and pink blooms that flew every time the wind blew.
Amy continued to work in peace while her father slowly crouched down, sitting opposite to Amy, his hand rested on the stone in front of him while Amy continued cleaning almost mechanically.
Mr. Park: How did you know I kept her here?
He spoke, genuinely intrigued. For the world, he was a villain in the name of a husband who had made sure his wife’s grave stayed alone and abandoned somewhere in a public cemetery. This place was a secret that only he knew until his daughter.
Amy: I have my ways. I am not surprised that you have kept her isolated here as well.
She muttered, her words tasting bitter on her tongue.
Mr. Park: Yes, I have kept her isolated, not abandoned. It’s her favourite place. She liked visiting here alone whenever she sought peace.
The words made her hand halt, but she did not acknowledge to met his eyes. Her gaze remained on her mother’s grave.
Mr. Park: So I kept her here. I wished it were me instead of her. She paid the price of my fate.
He sighed, taking a deep breath, his hand caressing the grave. Amy finally glanced at her father’s face, and instead of a cold businessman, she found a mourning lover. Those eyes held love, regret, guilt, and something she couldn’t name: yearning.
She quickly looked away, not wanting to believe anything her eyes saw; in her perception, it was his fake facade, and she wouldn’t let it affect her even the slightest. She wanted to believe it was all false. She had painted her father as evil; she wasn’t going to take it back.
Amy: Why even put a shitshow in the media if you cared about her peace so much? You could have avoided it all. You made her death, her funeral, a fucking circus. Tell me, Mr. Park, was acquiring ACE more important to you than my mother’s life?
She spoke with venom; she remembered the day vividly. The media had crowded the cemetery; flashes and barbaric questions were thrown at her father. She was there, cocooned in his arms, cameras flashing on them while she had hidden herself in his neck, and she had heard it all and heard them making those ugly, irrational comments that targeted her mom and dad—the next day being a news headline everywhere in newspapers. It had buried a seed of doubt, which only grew into hatred as she grew old.
She glared at her father, who only removed his glasses, finally settling on the grass after he had been crouching on his knees.
Mr. Park: I see. We never got a chance to talk civilly. Fate gave us a coincidence to help.
He didn’t sound angry or offended by the fact that Amy didn’t address him as her father or by how rudely she had spoken to him. He knew he deserved it. Instead, he was glad that she had finally spoken to him.
Mr. Park: It’s a long story, Amy. There was a reason why I did what I did. I know I am no saint, but listen to me just once. I didn’t marry your mother for her company; it was a lie, a lie meant to save her. It’s quite dumb to even believe that while I own an empire, I would marry someone for one company; I would rather acquire it before they even blink. I guess I manipulated people so well that even your mom passed away believing the same.
Amy had realised why all this time Mr. Conor, her father-in-law had been calling her a carbon copy of her dad. Though she had despised it every time it was mentioned, it had made her blood boil, but the tone used was something she had casually used all the time. Being sarcastic and genuine at the same time while saying such serious stuff—yeah, she now knew where that characteristic came from.
Amy frowned, the expression of shock slowly registering on her face; she knew about the family wealth they owned. But she didn’t speak, not yet.
Mr. Park: Do you remember your grandfather?
The question took her by surprise; she could barely remember interacting with that man. She had seen him from a distance at business parties as a kid but never interacted. He was scary in looks when she was young. She never shared a normal relationship with her grandfather; her memory of him was rather distant and unsettling.
Amy: What about him?
She blurted, sensing distraction, yet she kept her face composed, hands working on the bunch of lilies she had brought for decoration. Meanwhile, Mr. Park also started helping her as he continued to speak in a casual tone.
Mr. Park: He was the patriarch. A man who had planned my life and business as per his ideals. He was enthusiastic about playing God in my life. And I had kind of revolted him by marrying your mother. A woman who held no legacy, no elite name, and no origin had brought your grandpa’s psychotic, violent tendencies to life. He hated Lily; no, he hated women in general who were in a position of power, who could make decisions. He had tried to take her away from me.
Amy: Then, what did you do?
He smiled.
Mr. Park: I showed him my psychotic tendencies. I threatened to crumble the very empire I had inherited from him. Getting ACE from your mother was one of the lies I fed him to keep him and his threats at bay. Even though your mom had no background or a surname, she was a fierce businesswoman. And ACE was flourishing at that point. Threatening him and feeding him lies had helped in avoiding his evilness for a few years. Then we built an orphanage that we both cherished the most. Then we had you; just when I felt I was finally complete, your grandfather had once again become a pain. He didn’t like the fact that the next heir of the empire was a woman. His ego had been thrashed when I had deliberately rubbed it on his face.
He paused deliberately, quickly glancing at Amy for her reaction. But she had kept her expression blank as a stone.
Mr. Park: And the next thing, he fabricated evidence against ACE being involved in illegal operations and had attempted to tarnish your mom’s name; he had dared to make every attempt to make sure I would step back. He no longer feared the empire’s reputation being tarnished; he just wanted to break Lily’s will, which was an absolutely foolish idea to keep me away.
He continued.
Mr. Park: It didn’t affect me. He had paid media, forged evidence, and tons of slander and libel were thrown around daily. It turned ugly very, very quickly. Lily had still stood strong, and I never once stepped away. But in the struggle to put away all his threats, I didn’t realise that I ignored the very enemy that stayed so close to you and Lily. I couldn’t sense that threat… I was such a fool….
Amy knew what he was talking about; that enemy was her stepmother, a close friend of her mom. No one would have ever thought that someone who played so innocent would dare to commit a murder. A wolf in the disguise of a sheep.
Amy: And then you married that bitch next? You knew she killed my mom, and yet you…
She trailed off, gritting her teeth; she seethed in anger at the mere thought of a woman she had already cold-bloodedly murdered. But memories did leave scars; hers were wounds that never healed. She knew the later story; that woman had entered her life looking like an angel until she showed her true colours. Her father had gone away for the next 2 years for business deals overseas. No call, no answers. He visited on random days through the year and left on the very same day again. And every time he visited, her stepmother would pull up excuses of her being on a trip, in school, or doing other activities. And he had shrugged it off, which was the biggest mistake. He had been ignorant.
Mr. Park: I was late. Very late. The moment I got to know the truth was when she had already used you as her pawn…. I failed.
Mr. Park uttered, sensing the anger in Amy.
Amy: You failed? You made a monster out of me; count that as a success. There were numerous times when I wished to end my sufferings. I was suicidal. But damn, I had held my grudges. I made it to the underworld, became a criminal and rose into business, and now that we are finally talking… You give me this shit-sob story of yours. You sure have brilliant skills for manipulation. No wonder my father-in-law kept saying I had your traits.
She lowly growled, her words sharp and bitter. She huffed a breath, looking away at a distance.
Mr. Park: I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry.
Mr. Park tried speaking again, not sure what could make her calm again.
Amy: If you think this sweet story of yours is going to melt me, you're wrong. Know this: I hate you, and I'm not going to forgive you ever.
She seethed, aggressively placing the flowers across the gravestone.
Mr. Park: I understand. I just wanted to let you know; that’s all.
He finally concluded, knowing he couldn’t do anything to satiate her rage. There was a heavily charged silence between them, where Amy contemplated either lashing out at him or making peace with it. The next few minutes passed; Amy didn’t move, nor did her father. He looked at her keenly as if trying to dissect her blank expression.
Amy quietly sighed, shifting on her knees as she quickly arranged the bouquets across the gravestone. She wasn’t ready to wait another minute there.
Mr. Park: Let’s push the past aside. I know it’s not my business. But are you going to leave your husband?
He let out the words carefully, not wanting to end beyond her bad books.
Amy: None of your concern. Do not change the topic. Distraction won’t work on me.
She had caught on to the tactic immediately, not letting Mr. Park speak at all.
Mr. Park: I know I’m not a very reliable person for advising on relationships, but I have seen that kid fight for you. I had seen him wither away and also fight for justice against your stepmother to put her behind bars.
She knew it was the truth, but hearing it from him made her doubt everything.
Amy: Where are you taking this conversation?
She interrupted.
Mr. Park: All I’m saying is, are you not going to fight for him? I know he is not some mere person you got across with, he does affect you.
Mr. Park placed his words carefully, not wanting to end in her bad books. Amy sighed, looking down at the sunny grass.
Amy: I don’t deserve him; keeping him away will make things right. I made a mistake coming back.
Mr. Park: Those were his words?
Amy shook her head in denial.
Amy: This is best for both of us.
Mr. Park: Now that’s selfish. You have my traits; that’s a fact.
Amy glared at him.
Amy: No, I’m not selfish like you. You knew the damage that occurred in Mom's life was because of you, and yet you chose to bring your sufferings on her just to revolt against your father. I am not like you. I won’t be you. I cannot let any of my shortcomings threaten him! I might have rewritten my life, but I’m not free. I could be targeted at any point in my life, and if they found him to be my weakness, I could lose him forever.
Mr Park could only let out a sigh; the hatred from his daughter had hit him like nails on the coffin.
Mr. Park: Selfishness is a double-edged sword. It always ends in a dead prospect, if you are being selfish for yourself or others. You want to push him away because you want him to be safe. I kept Lily with me because I wanted her to be safe. I couldn’t let her go knowing she would crumble and that my father would snap her the second she left my life.
He spoke, words settling heavy, still sitting beside her mom’s grave.
Amy: But you still couldn’t keep her safe, could you?
She breathed. There was silence again, both of them feeling the heaviness and helplessness of the words they had exchanged.
Amy: I don’t want my dirt on Conor; that’s my goal. I can keep him safe from afar, look at him from a distance, maybe. I would kill every pest if things ever went south. I can definitely promise that. I can protect him by keeping him away from me once he forgives me.
She concluded, but she wanted to make herself believe it.
Mr Park: I hope the decision you make is the right one.
He mumbled softly.
Amy didn’t answer back; she simply rose to her height, looking down with a quiet glare at her father. She couldn’t see any malice; she found him rather genuine. It perplexed her. But she paid no heed, shrugging the feeling off.
She turned on her heels, walking away. She didn’t dare to glance back at him, pondering on his words with every step she took. Meanwhile, Mr. Park stayed near the grave as he looked at Amy walking away.
Jay's POV:
It was Sunday. Amy’s exhibition invitation card rested abandoned on my study table. The same table where I had dared to kiss her breathlessly, seen her blush like a tomato and tasted her blood on my tongue like a food-deprived beast. Damn, that memory played in my head like a broken recorder. Though part of me was embarrassed, the other part made me want it again and again. I was clearly longing for her, no matter how hard I had been trying not to accept it.
Not to mention the situation in which she had left the house. She had made a pyre for me, dropping the lighter before she exited the door that day; the remnants of her lip gloss had been a constant tease by my father, but Mom looked like she had been hit by a truck. I think both of them had a faint idea of what might have happened. After that day, Mom had made sure to make Emma stick around me, making her trail me like an obedient puppy.
She had been clinging to me for days; today, she wanted to drag me out of the house for an outing, which I was clearly not interested in. She had barged into my house, not to mention she had brought a dress for me that she wanted me to wear for the event. The clothing wasn’t even my style; it was a vibrant blue, casual and tacky formal suit that didn’t match my taste.
Don’t blame me. I wasn’t silent about my disapproval of whatever this fiancé arrangement was, but Emma and my mom had turned deaf and blind to my opinion and actions. Maybe that was a tactic to keep me compliant for whatever this marriage planning was. Emma was just playing dumb. She had blackmailed me in Mom's name, and here we were standing in front of a museum’s entrance that looked like an extravagant gala.
She had planned to meet her friends here. I don’t know what my role was here. Maybe a plus one, not like I cared. She kept ranting about random things to me and how she wanted me to choose her wedding dress, buy her a ring, and get a wedding cake.
For God's sake.
She didn’t shut up. My peace was in danger. She had eaten my head by the time we reached the entrance. I knew she had a chirpy nature, who would blabber all day long; it was always Kevin that she would rant to, and he would happily listen to her. I had never been mentally invested in hearing all of it. But damn, I was starting to realise if I actually got married to her, I was done for.
I had to find some way or other to put into that small head of hers that this marriage arrangement wouldn't be at all beneficial for her. She was investing all her energy in an emotionally unavailable person like me. I don’t know why she had been so motivated that she could change me.
Here we were standing at the entrance. Emma threw her hands, wrapping around my arm.
Emma: We are here; it’s an exhibition. I kind of managed to get two invites. It’s extravagant.
She giggled, clutching my arm tighter. I knew this was Mom’s doing. A private exhibition invite can only come from the organiser. This wasn’t some public exhibition. I sighed, not blurting the truth to her face.
With that, we entered the venue. It was so bright and glowing on the outside, but the inside was a totally different story. The walls were lined up with artwork, balanced lighting, and all kinds of art freak personalities vibing and belonging to the place. Chatter and clinks of champagne flutes filled the air. Emma had been dragging me all along as she did a squeaky little jump, spotting something at a distance as she finally left my arm.
A group of friends I remembered from her blabbering earlier. I spotted Kevin standing among some other people who smiled at Emma from a distance like a lovesick boy. She squealed, leaning in for a hug with one of them. She introduced me as her boyfriend to them, and as I smiled tightly, correcting her was only going to cause a scene, and I didn’t want that. I cherished my peace much more than meaningless conversation.
All of a sudden, their attention had been stuck on me. Of course, my surname had created attention before Emma even mentioned it. I realised that a solid reputation could erase all fuck-ups in life. These people acted like I was someone very, very important.
Even though my career had crashed, I was labelled mentally unstable, but damn, my surname could make a sinking ship sail. Dad had made sure to make a squeaky clean slate of my name in the media. I was now an heir of the Conors, and I owned an orphanage that had its reputation hanging by a thread, as a few articles always came up every month questioning the good intentions of the organisation and the children’s future.
I wasn’t the one saying it. I hadn’t said a word all this time; the people around me had made sure to do my background research and come up with all kinds of bullshit that they had read in those media articles and rub it in my face. One of them was very persistent and kept prying about how I got to the orphanage and how it had a very bad reputation because of my late mother-in-law. And that I should be leaving the orphanage so as not to let the dirt reach me. That fucker dared to advise me to leave my 2 years of hard work in reopening it.
God, it boiled my blood so much. But I was now aware that apart from silently working for the orphanage, I needed to rebuilt it’s reputation in the media. The funds and donations that ever came were because of my surname and goodwill. I made a note in my head to work on it once we left this place.
I was getting annoyed by each passing second, while Emma had been all chirpy and smiley, and I had noticed the longing on Kevin’s face. That guy had been lovestruck with Emma, yet didn’t have the guts to confess to her.
The conversation finally came to a break when people started to applaud and cheer for the artist, who had organised this exhibition. He was different in ethnicity, maybe a japanese the moment he began to speak, his accent was all too obvious as the words left his mouth. But damn, for the beauty standards, he did look charming.
“Good evening, everyone,
Thank you for joining us tonight.
For me, photography has never been about simply capturing images—it has been about capturing stories. Every photograph in this exhibition represents a person whose courage, resilience, and experiences have left a mark, whether visible or unseen. Behind every scar is a story, and behind every story is remarkable strength.
As you explore the exhibition, you'll find different collections that reflect different journeys. For those with special access, there is also a private gallery that shares the raw and painful story of a victim whose story deserves to be seen and remembered.
Tonight's auction is not just about acquiring art. It is about preserving these stories and honouring the people who lived them.
Before I conclude, I would like to thank everyone who trusted me with their stories. And a special thank you to our sponsor, whose belief in this vision helped commission these displays and make this exhibition possible.
Thank you, and enjoy the evening.”
The speech came to an end. There were loud cheers and applause around. The artist had left the small stage as he continued to greet the people around, often deeply explaining his pieces.
I had perfect timing to excuse myself as I wandered away from Emma to look around and indulge myself in reviewing those photo displays. I walked around looking at each piece. Those pictures had captured scars beautifully.
There were cancer survivors, firefighters, and army militants. People from all walks of life who had either battled diseases or served the country. I went to the next display; it was the back of a person that started from the shoulders and ended at the torso, filled with scars that ran all along the spine.
Multiple scars, aged by time, some were faded but visible, and others were prominent. It didn’t show the person’s face, only the back. I stared at the picture; those scars were really familiar.
I paused. It took my brain some push to sense. I had seen those scars in reality. I had felt it under my palm and traced it with my fingers, and I absolutely knew who this person was.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the picture until I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“What do you find interesting about this piece?”
That voice.
Oh.
Yeah.
Shit.
I craned my head to the side, already recognising that deep voice.
Amy.
Yeah. Damn. God. Goodness.
Out of all the exhibitions, Emma had to bring me to the very exhibition that Amy had sent me an invite for.
Wow.
Could the day get any less worse?
Amy stepped beside me, shifting her hand on my shoulder, resting her arm this time, her eyes on the frame, while it took me energy from the heavens not to visibly roll my eyes at her nonchalant pretence. I could very well sense the slight twitch on the corner of her lips that was threatening to curve up.
Amy: Looks like your fiancé got you where you didn’t want to be.
She let her smirk show. I couldn’t see her eyes behind those black shades she chose to wear indoors. But I knew what her expressions were. Amusement and smugness. And she was absolutely relishing my situation.
I didn’t answer her words, looking forward. I could feel her ogling and scrutinising me from head to toe, a breathy, rich chuckle escaping her throat.
Amy: This isn't your taste. Your woman dressed you, didn’t she? I must say, she failed terribly.
She snorted, putting it slowly, emphasising the words "your woman" deliberately. She was picking on my nerves on purpose. I snapped my head to glare at her. But yeah, she had stated all the correct facts.
Jay: I could say the same about you. Which tacky designer thought a glittering red and black formal suit with all-black sunglasses indoors and a Chinese fan was a good idea for an exhibition?
I spat those words, glancing at her Chinese fan, which stayed close in her fist at the moment. I couldn’t help but notice the holy cross that dangled out of her blazer’s sleeve. Did she ever remove it? It always made me overthink, I wondered if she ore it just for the sake of it. Did it ever held meaning to her? She slightly tilted her head, looking even more amused. She snickered in disbelief. Because both of us knew I was lying. I was bluffing, and she had caught me the very second.
God, because I loved her in every style. She could make any accessory and clothing feel like they’re made only for her. She had added red highlights to her hair to match the outfit, and she looked like a goddess from hell, sharp and alluring. And I could melt in a puddle this very second if she removed those sunglasses to look at me with those brown orbs.
Amy: I didn’t mean to offend you. I mean... it’s not all bad; my gift does enhance your face card.
Out of everything, she chose to appreciate her not-so-stalkerish location tracking device of an earring she had gifted me.
Jay: Wow, you are so narcissistic. You make me wonder if this trait of yours even has an end.
I was sulking at this point, trying my best not to let her see how much her teasing was affecting me.
Amy: Anyways, what did you like about this one?
She asked, glancing at the picture in front of us.
Jay: I knew it was familiar, but you really agreed to give him a picture to display?
I blurted, internally envious of the artist.
Amy: Yeah, that dork had entered our military camp and had eaten my head off for a picture. He’s kind of screwed. I knocked him down unconscious twice, and yet that douche didn’t get away with death threats either. Tough shit.
She spoke in a casual tone. But I knew better. Amy wasn’t someone who could bend to anyone’s tough will. That guy wouldn’t have seen another sunrise if Amy wished. She had something up her sleeve. She wouldn’t move if she didn’t get anything in return.
Jay: Hard to believe.
I commented. She only smiled, not a genuine one. There was silence, and I could feel every other person murmuring behind us. They seemed to recognise Amy or me, maybe.
Amy: You don’t look enthusiastic enough to come to an exhibition. I wasn’t really expecting you to show up.
She teased.
Jay: Me neither.
I spoke the truth.
Amy: Let’s toast to this coincidence.
She got two champagne flutes from the nearby staff as she handed me one. She pushed her glass, clinking with mine, and took a sip.
I looked away from her, finally eyeing the people who had been boring holes into my back. I could spot the photographer walking towards us. His eyes were scrutinising me like he had lowkey seen a disaster. I didn't hd a good feeling about this. He schooled his expressions as he walked closer. His gaze darted between us, finally stopping at Amy, taking her in.
“Well, for a quick introduction, I’m Oliver. I have clicked those. Ms. Maria, my goodness, I’m glad you were finally able to attend our exhibition. The designer has really done majestic work on your outfit. You are really standing out here. I hope you guys are enjoying.”
He gave me a mere glance at the 1st sentence, and then his whole attention was hooked on Amy. He was trying to flirt. And not once has he made an effort to acknowledge me out of courtesy. I could really see the heart eyes he was giving to Amy.
Amy wasn’t even smiling at him; he was red as a tomato already. Well, it wasn’t his fault; she had charms. I was annoyed again, a little bit jealous. No, a little more jealous.
Jay: Why don’t we go and see the other rooms, Ms. Maria? Let’s go!
I quickly interrupted, holding her wrist as I almost threw a menacing glare at the guy, who looked surprised as if thrown out of the trance.
Oliver: Yeah, I mean, I can accompany you.
He cut in his heavy accent.
Jay: No, no. I think we should go by ourselves; you must have so many guests to attend. Please, we don’t want to be a bother.
I offered politely, and it was fake. I glanced at Amy, who stayed smug, but she looked entertained. She was clearly enjoying. Oliver opened his mouth to say otherwise, but was cut off again by Amy.
Amy: He’s right. This is an important business event. We need attraction and attention to our art pieces. Make sure you achieve that.
With that, we were walking away towards another room.
Jay: So you’re sponsoring this exhibition.
Amy: Kinda.
She mused.
Jay: What’s in that gallery?
My curiosity was piqued.
Amy: Find it yourself.
She smirked.
We reached closer to the entrance as the receptionist glanced at us.
Amy: Jay Conor.
She simply announced my name to the guy, who quietly looked at his list and nodded, leading us to the door. This gallery was not for everyone, but for very specific people; I had figured that.
Jay: What’s so special that it has limited passes?
I peered at her, and in return, she gave that blank expression.
Amy: You’ll see.
The door opened, and all I could see was darkness. The room had no windows and no source of light whatsoever. There was a sudden flicker of dim light around, and the surroundings became a little more visible.
There were glowing radium-painted footsteps on the floor, deliberately staged. It looked like walking onto a crime scene.
We kept walking, following the footsteps; there were photos on both sides of the wall. We were in the hallway, I guessed. Those photos were vintage and blurry. It showed a woman in a white dress. A simple frock or maybe a hospital gown. It looked unsettling.
There was a series of photos; all of them had this woman in a gown, and she was suffering, maybe. It gave me goosebumps. And if this wasn’t bad enough already, there was more to come. After walking from the hallway, we entered a large space, and it almost made me puke.
The next series of photos wasn’t blurry. It was the same woman’s picture. All the photos in this gallery were black and white, captured by a specific vintage camera; my unartistic conclusions: to give a gloomy mood or show this act of torture as not completely right or wrong, but grey.
There were close-ups of her shaved head, plucked-out nails, and scratches over her skin as if she had tried to keep herself sane in captivity. Some photos were taken between mid- process of torture, and the look of dread in those eyes had made me shiver. It was brutal.
Her face and her head were bruised; she had tried to harm herself, repeatedly hitting her head on the wall. There were wide shots as well, revealing the facility; it was surely a hospital.
The room was all white, meant to psychologically torture her. There were stains of blood on the wall. She was desperately craving for colour. All these pictures were taken when she was conscious, not drugged or dazed; fully conscious, as if the captor had wanted her to suffer with reality, with real pain.
Jay: Who would even buy such disturbing pictures at auction? Only someone sick in the head would enjoy the idea of keeping it in a hall room display.
I muttered low enough for Amy to hear. The ambience of the room made my skin crawl, and not to mention, the limited number of individuals who I thought would have the same reaction as me were staring at those pictures as if they were something enjoyable. I saw one of them smiling, looking at one of the pictures.
Amy: Well, business is all about selling the right product to the right audience and getting good profit out of it. I have both here. Look around; all those people are potential buyers, and mind you, they are specifically here to purchase it.
I was starting to get what Amy was saying. Those people were elites and were looking at those pictures with such amusement as if they held no empathy for that woman. They surely were potential buyers and were absolutely sick in the head, as Amy had said.
Those pictures on display were totally meant for sadistic pleasure. It was gruesome for a sane-headed person like me. I saw another picture of her crying; her teeth had been plucked out, her mouth filled with wounded gums and blood. I couldn’t look at it any longer, as I looked away immediately, trying my best to contain my nausea that had been hitting my throat. I slowly exhaled, and the next thing I looked at was jars of teeth, nails, and hair on a fucking display.
This…
This was so SICK. Insanity.
I looked back at Amy, who didn’t share the same expression as I did. She looked gleeful, almost prideful; there was that wicked glint in her eyes. She had her glasses removed as she gave that long gaze to the picture I was looking at earlier. The same gaze of interest that other people in this gallery wore.
They weren’t sympathising with a woman who had been a victim of torture from someone so mentally sick, as to do all of this to her. They were rather attracted to the woman’s misery. The look of fear was rather entertaining to them. They were relishing it. It made me sick to my stomach.
Jay: Can we leave? Please.
I caught her attention as I exhaled again, trying to keep those horrific images out of my mind.
Amy: This early?
She muttered.
Jay: It’s disturbing. It’s gruesome. Whoever has clicked on such a concept must be a psycho. It’s madness.
I crouched a little, rubbing my chest to calm my nausea. Though these photos were staged, they looked so real that it made me so uneasy.
Amy: I see. Well, it’s not some made-up concept. These are real.
I froze, slowly looking up to meet my wide eyes with her amused ones.
Jay: Come again?
I thought I had misheard it.
Amy: These are real. It happened in the psychiatric centre, and later the hospital caught fire. It took me months to capture those. Piece by piece.
She spoke about it so casually as if she were talking about her morning coffee. The monotone had brought chills down my spine as I slowly gathered my courage to look at those pictures again.
God, no.
I knew Amy was capable of destruction, and I had seen her worst version, but selling that stuff as art was an absolutely sick thing to do.
Jay: You did this?
I stuttered, and she smiled. It creeped the shit out of me. I took a deep breath; the dark ambience and those pictures were suffocating me.
Jay: Who’s she?
I blurted, trying my best to breathe.
Amy: Your mother-in-law. My bad, late mother-in-law.
She gave out that smug look.
I was horrified. I looked at those pictures again. The woman in those pictures, I couldn’t even recognise her. She looked entirely different, and the jar of nails finally caught my attention. It had remnants of nail paint and extensions. I could vaguely connect the dots; my head felt so airy. I could puke at any moment.
Damn.
I couldn’t hold on any longer as I made a run towards the exit of the gallery, straight to the washroom. My stomach lurched, bile rising to my throat as I rushed into one of the stalls, emptying the contents of my stomach. The blood, the gore, flashing through my head.
It felt dizzy. I let the haze subside as I finally cleaned myself, stepping out to the basin, splashing water on my face as if it would clean whatever my eyes had seen a few minutes ago.
My ears were buzzing from the aftermath, my brain disoriented with all the bumming thoughts that went across my mind.
I heard footsteps, and speak of the devil. It was Amy.
It was a unisex washroom. Absolutely, she could barge in.
Amy: My bad. I didn’t think it would end like this. It didn’t match your taste, I guess.
I almost gave her a look of disbelief. She had to be kidding me.
She had to be joking. But nope, she instead pushed a water bottle into my hand, which I was grateful for. Next, she fished out a candy from her pocket, unwrapping it and pushing it past my lips.
Amy: This should make you feel better.
The sheer audacity of this woman. She was madness itself. A madness that had consumed me whole. I needed to make things make sense to me.
Jay: So you killed Mrs. Park months after the court ordered rehabilitation?
The question hung in the air.
Amy: I was in a coma for a few months, and once I woke up, I saw that bitch’s face on the television, and I saw blood. And I wanted her blood.
It made my stomach lurch the way she spoke about it; it was so casual and so fucking wrong in so many ways. She sounded bored while saying that, as if it were nothing. God, I couldn’t fathom the fact that Amy had faced a near-death tragedy and had been in a coma for months with almost no chance of awakening or consciousness. And by God's grace, even when she woke up, she fucking chose to draw blood first.
I had gone hysterical for 2 fucking years, and she knew. She knew that I had been suffering. I had been mourning. And I was so damn sure she had kept an eye on me all this time. It made me so mad.
But this wasn’t the time to be angry. I continued to breathe, trying to calm my nerves first before anything came out of my mouth.
My eyes were trained on her, wanting to look past her resting bitch face. She was doing this deliberately. I was positive. That gaze of hers always appeared when she was analysing something, making conclusions. She was trying to read me.
I didn’t say a word; I could see the wheels turning in her head. She was coaxing me to react. I casually took a sip from the bottle, the candy melting against my tongue, calming my nerves. I finally spoke up.
Jay: So you chose this version of revenge from her.
The words left my lips; I had managed to keep calm. I cleaned my glasses as I wore them again once I wiped my face.
Jay: I hope it has helped you regulate yourself.
It landed, my eyes trained on hers.
She paused for a bare second and composed herself quickly. I had almost imagined it. But I was able to catch it. She clearly wasn’t expecting this to be my reaction.
She wanted to piss me off on purpose. She didn’t speak any further. I raked my finger through my hair to appear tidy as I finally exited the place, leaving Amy there.
