Page 4 of Lost & Found

While the room afforded me the luxury of allowing my mind to drift and pretend there was a normalcy in it, our new daily schedule would sometimes make me long for the tiny cell instead. At least in there we were left alone for the most part.

Spring was still my neighbor, and I quickly learned the walls here were so thin it often felt like there was just a sheet separating us. Everything was amplified, if you will. Another thing that made me long for my old room.

Later that evening, the woman who had been driving the car stepped into my room. But something was significantly different about her. When she lifted her head, my breath caught in my throat. A dark, jagged mark ran from her hairline down, across her forehead, cutting through her eyebrow and trailing over the bridge of her nose.

The entire left eye, and the skin on her cheek, was angry and uneven, shiny in places like wax that had melted and hardened again. I stared before I could stop myself. Sixty days ago, her face had been smooth. Now it looked like someone had pressed hot metal against her face. She’d been burned.

When she noticed me staring, she steeled her eyes and brought up a hanger with a dress on it, covering it the only way she could. The Collector introduced her to me as X and then stepped out.

She didn’t speak but gestured for me to undress. Was the weird dress for me? Her eyes darted to the door, and I could feel her panic rising. Instinctively, I understood. I removed the nightgown they had given me and looked at the garment again.

It was strange looking and reminded me of dolls you see in antique shop windows. It was embroidered and full of lace. It had a pinafore. It was pale yellow, adorned with intricate floral patterns. The neckline had a ruffle of lace, and it framed my face.

The sleeves puffed at the shoulders, tapering down to fitted cuffs adorned with tiny pearl buttons. The waist was cinched with a satin sash tied into a neat bow at the back. The skirt billowed out around me, falling in soft pleats to brush against my knees.

Beneath the dress, X had insisted I wear white tights that hugged my legs like a second skin. My shoes were black patent leather, polished to a high shine and decorated with tiny bows at the toes. They clicked against the floor as I shifted nervously on my feet.

Soon X was heaving, signaling we needed to leave my room. I didn’t want to go, but there was never a choice in what I wanted anymore. As I was ushered out of my room, I noticed the other girls were standing by their doors already. Each of us was a picture of porcelain perfection, hair meticulously styled and faces painted with a delicate touch.

Winter was clearly the most uncomfortable. An uneasy look settled on her face. She had a wise look about her. Maybe she had been here the longest. Summer’s face was hard to read, and poor Spring beamed in her pink dress. She looked so proud of her appearance.

We were led to the arena. A throne faced the stage. Behind it, there was a small riser of seats. Onstage was a cello, a piano, and an easel. After being placed side by side next to one another, the Mask and the Collector came into view. With them was another man.

He looked close to my brother’s age. He stood tall and lanky and had an air of unsettling elegance. His eyes and much of his face were hidden behind a mask reminiscent of those worn at a masquerade ball.

At least his wasn’t scary, but it was still unnerving the way he intently stared at each of us. He was dressed in a sleek black tuxedo; the fabric clung to his lean frame. He was led to the throne and took his seat.

“Today is special and for one of you could mean a different outcome than the others. In the coming days, you will learn what your purpose is and how long you will stay. You will cultivate fans along the way, using your talents to wow the world,” the Mask began, and I wondered how many times he had given this speech.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something awful was going to come from this.

“One by one, you will come forward and perform for my son, Sonny. One of you will be chosen to become his. It is a coveted role, one you will want to ensure you pour all of yourself into. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. Seize it and your life will be significantly different. Give a pitiful, empty performance and it will cost you everything.”

As if we hadn’t already lost everything. His delusions would only become more and more pronounced as the years went by, but at that moment, all there was, was fear and confusion. It was as if we were standing before a figure from a nightmare, a puppet master pulling the strings, all while wearing a grin on his face.

Winter was called first, and she approached the cello like an old friend. A sense of relief covered her face, and I sucked in a breath. She looked so beautiful. The amber color of the instrument, combined with the lights catching in her hair, complemented the serene look on her face. With a haunting melody, the room filled with the mournful strains of the cello echoing off the walls.

The man on the throne clapped lazily as she finished, and he leaned over immediately to the Mask and whispered low. With a nod, the Mask introduced Summer.

My mouth fell open as she took her seat at the piano and, with one deep breath, her small fingers danced across the keys. Like Winter, she disappeared, losing herself to the music. All that was left was heartache and confusion.

Once more, the man reacted, this time with a shake of his head. He rejected her. That was clear as day. As the Mask called Spring forward, she missed her cue. The fact that he had to call her name twice was lost on the small child because X prompted her to take the stage, and she once more beamed.

She gracefully took up her spot and moved with a fluidity that was mesmerizing. The new man sat forward intently, a smile lighting up his face as she danced.

“Come here, little Spring,” he called, and his voice sent a shiver down my spine.

It was low, whispering with a warmth I wasn’t expecting, given that his father’s was cold and devoid of compassion. The silly little girl smiled and ran to him. She stopped short when the Mask scowled. She curtseyed and then bowed her head. My stomach bottomed out as Sonny tilted her chin up.

“You are molto piccolo. Do you know what that means?”

“No, Sir,” Spring whispered.

He spoke Italian. A shock reverberated through me.

“It means very petite, which is a fancy word for small. You are like a living doll, so pretty.”

I couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread as he continued to ask her simple questions. His words hung in the air. She answered him in the same soft, feathery voice of a small child, and then he sent her off to stand by the other seasons.