The plushest and fanciest material possessions in the world meant nothing when you were alone.
I had realised that over the past three months, which were in themselves the most depressing periods of my sorry existence. They were spent in an expensive-looking townhouse; five floors (including the converted attic, but not the wine cellar), nine bedrooms and en suites, three leisure rooms and a garden that resembled more of a field. As a construction worker, I made homes for a living and a place like this usually would have been a dream to behold, but now it remained just as valueless as a shelter made of sticks. I hadn’t even ventured onto the third floor yet, having become totally uncurious, let alone outside of the technically impressive structure.
Somehow I managed to shower and dress everyday, though I was sure this was more so a product of my insomnia and less of a tribute to my eagerness to start the day. My hair and body remained clean, but my face was plagued by dark, bruise-like circles that stubbornly blotched around my eyes. I had at first at least attempted some form of exercise, but my lack of appetite made execution difficult; I either ended up exhausted, on the brink of unconsciousness, or having hurt myself in the process. I had several stitches cutting through my eyebrow from when I’d passed out doing jump rope and hit my head against the mantel piece in the living room.
It had been exactly three months, four days and three and a half hours since I’d last seen her when the phone rang. I had been merely sitting at the small coffee table in the kitchen, sharing out the window and upon the snow-covered floor outside. There were missing patches where the green was slick with water, and it was impossible to see above the hedge that barricaded me and the house in on this floor. That was why I only kept the blinds open down here.
I didn’t realise what was happening at first; I hadn’t heard anything but my own breath for the past three months and the prospect of hearing another’s voice seemed utterly insurmountable. I merely sat there for a few moments and stared at the previously silent telephone before slowly rising to answer it.
“Roman.”
My breath caught in my throat slightly when I heard those two single syllables; a voice. Her sister, to be specific.
I couldn’t say anything.
“I’m outside, Roman.” Her voice floated softly to me through the line.
Outside? This wasn’t the telephone; it was the intercom.
“Wha...” I hadn’t spoken in months, and it showed; my throat was dry as could be and the word gravelled across my tongue. I made a clearing noise to no avail. “Flavia,” I managed to say in a deadening tone. The word held hints of desperation; I begged her not to toy with me like this.
“I’m serious,” she near-cooed. “Roman, let me in. Philippa’s nearly freezing.”
Another sister. I felt like I might die from shock, but still managed to put the phone down and go to open the door for them. When I was faced with the only break in the hedge, letting my eyes drink in the sunlight, I groaned in pain. They watered, as though suddenly acidic; I stepped back into the darkness. I stood holding the door open for the two Royal sisters so they could join me, unable to stop myself from noticing the wary look on Flavia’s face; the almost frightened one on Philippa’s.
Flavia was twenty-seven in actuality, but had the wise face of someone much older. She didn’t look aged, exactly, but the expression and air that she constantly possessed led to the belief that she was in her mid-thirties or so. When she revealed her true age, there could always be heard an oh! yes! of course- what was I thinking?
Philippa was just ten years old; and in between them… Elektra. She would have turned twenty years old precisely a fortnight ago.
“Roman,” said Flavia when we re-entered the kitchen area; she looked graver than I had ever seen her. “You look so… unwell.”
