Page 8 of Porcelain Grave

Rhys steps forward, his movements fluid and predatory. With one swift motion, he rips the blindfold off.

Thomas jolts, a muffled scream dying in his throat as he blinks against the light. He sees Rhys and recoils, his whole body jumping in raw, primal fear. Then, his eyes shift and land on me. He tries to lung forward, the chains snapping taut with a violent clink, jerking him back against the stone.

Rhys reaches out and rips the gag from his mouth.

"Ophelia! Oh, God, Ophelia, please!" he wails, his voice cracked and desperate. "Get me out of here! Please, baby, I'm sorry! I know I wasn't a good father, I know I was a fucking drunk, I was out of my mind! Please, forgive me! I'm still your father, Ophelia! I'm the only family you've got left in this world!"

I don't move. I just stare at him. I look at the bruises on his skin, the way his hands are shaking, the sheer, pathetic desperation in his eyes. He looks like a broken dog begging for scraps.

I take a slow step closer, my voice cold and steady. "I remember that night, Papa. I remember the man with the butcher's knife. I remember the blood. I remember you killing Rosalind and Cordelia."

The air in the room freezes. Thomas goes rigid, his expression shifting from desperation to a sudden, sharp panic.

"What? No! Ophelia, what the fuck are you talking about?" he screams, his voice rising in a frantic pitch. "You're crazy! You've always been a strange girl, but this is madness! Why would I kill my own daughters? I was the one who called the police! I loved them!"

He turns his head wildly toward Rhys. "Don't believe her! She's had nightmares for years, her head is fucked! Her memories are playing tricks on her, I swear to God!"

Rhys doesn't say a word. He doesn't even look at him. Instead, he wanders over to a dusty corner of the room where an old gramophone sits. He winds it up and drops the needle. A haunting, dissonant piece of music begins to fill the cell—something screeching and melancholic that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

Rhys walks back over, crouching down so he's eye-level with the man. That psychotic, thin-lipped smile is plastered on his face.

"So," Rhys purrs, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I hear you let your daughter suffer through nightmares for years. You never once went to her room? Never once held her? You just let those nightmares grow into a fucking phobia of mirrors? You're a real fucking saint, aren't you, Thomas?"

Thomas trembles, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, but no words come out.

"You like games, don't you, you piece of shit?" Rhys asks, his eyes gleaming with a manic light as he stands straight. "I think we'll play a little game. We'll call it 'Truth or Die.' Simple rules: Ophelia asks a question. You answer truthfully. If you decide to lie to my little doll... well, that's where the fun starts."

Rhys reaches into his belt and pulls out a heavy revolver. He opens the cylinder with a metallic snap, examining the chambers with a clinical focus. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a single bullet, and slides it into one of the slots. He snaps the cylinder shut and gives it a sharp, loud spin. Whirrrrr-click.

"Ophelia is going to ask you about the fucked up things you've done," Rhys explains, pressing the cold muzzle of the gun firmly against Thomas's temple. "And since I already know every disgusting detail of your life, I'll know exactly when you're lying. When you lie, I pull the trigger. One bullet. Six chambers. You've got a one-in-six chance of dying, and a five-in-six chance of surviving. Fair, right?"

CLICK.

Rhys pulls the trigger. The hammer hits the empty chamber with a sharp sound. Thomas screams, his whole body convulsing, his eyes slamming shut.

Rhys whistles softly, pulling the gun away with a delighted grin. "Ooh, your luck is holding up, mate. Pretty good odds. Especially if you just stop lying, eh?"

He turns to me, his expression shifting to one of pure, obsessive devotion. "I'm ready to play when you are, love."

I look at the man chained to the wall. I don't feel pity. I don't feel sadness. I feel a cold, hard void where my love for him used to be.

"Did you kill my sisters?" I ask, my voice flat. "Did you kill Cordelia and Rosalind?"

Thomas doesn't answer. He just shakes. His entire frame is vibrating, his teeth chattering so hard I can hear them. He just stares at me, paralyzed.

Rhys’s smile vanishes. "Thomas... you didn't answer. You broke the rules right out the fucking gate. Disqualified."

Rhys reaches out and shoves the gag back into Thomas's mouth, stifling his sudden, panicked wail. He raises the gun, aiming it squarely at the man's head. Thomas is hyperventilating now, his eyes wide and bloodshot, sobbing through the cloth in his mouth.

CLICK.

Another empty chamber. Thomas collapses into himself, gasping for air, his chest heaving in a full-blown panic attack.

Rhys pulls the gun back, checks the cylinder, and spins it again. He looks at me, his voice suddenly gentle, almost tender. "Ready to ask again, darling?"

I nod. "I'm ready."

Rhys pulls the gag down one more time. "No need to be so nervous, Thomas. Just answer my girl and you'll survive the night."