Seven Deadly Sons

Melanie. (7)

Maddox had left her a pot of peppermint tea in her room after he left.

He had passive-aggressively brewed the tea leaves as he berated her about her lack of maturity, how he should have her whipped for destroying precious and rare pieces of art. As if she'd follow him straight to the torture chamber with a spring in her step.

Rare stolen art, I had thought angrily, massively incensed at the suggestion. And it was almost destroyed, anyway.

Then he had given her a very pointed look, taking in all the lies her outfit told, before directing her to the well-stocked wardrobe and armoires.

Thinking back on her time with Maddox now, from the obscene comfort of her; double-duvet, spider-silk throw and eight dragon down-feather pillows (completely unnecessary, but nice) I believe I really do, truly and wholeheartedly hate him. To take me from my home - a shack on a quay, but nonetheless mine - and instruct me to take part in a death sentence-slash-trial by ordeal without any judge, jury or lawyer to help me.

It doesn't matter that I wouldn't be able to afford a lawyer in any case, it mattered that I was going to die and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Thinking over everything, again and again, was doing me no good, but I just couldn't stop. Staring at the beautiful room made it infinitesimally worse — seeing the expensive edging along the walls, the thick wood of the decor and the fire still burning even though the windows were wide open - I'd had enough.

I was going to have to find a way to leave, and soon. And a weapon would be ideal, actually.

With this new list forming in mind, I got up to switch my outfit as best I could to something a bit more practical. Swinging open every drawer and door I could find, even the dressing and bedside tables, I took all my options out and strew them across the large bed. Anything sleeveless, frilly or see-through was immediately disregarded and put in their new home: a pile at the bottom of the wardrobe.

Unfortunately, this method of removal left me with what looked like whores attire. Short skirts, leather trousers — corseted long-sleeved bustiers! Who could even afford clothes this thick? Let alone waste their money on actually purchasing the useless contraptions. I kept my messy puff-sleeve shirt on and decided to lower myself to the dark brown leather trousers; over my options of suede miniature skirts and what had originally looked like decorative scarves - but turned out to be frilly skirts only reaching mid thigh.

With the outfit sorted and my room suitably messy, I turned onto the next task at hand: Finding a weapon. I knew from searching through the clothes that no shoes or sharp objects seemed to be in sight, and had decided to don my leather boots instead; lot's of leather, too much leather I thought. How many cows had died for this? I bet they didn't even eat the meat, I speculated as I swept through the remaining corners of my room. The window had no jutting panels whatsoever, and the handle was steadfast. The chandelier was much too high to reach even if I could pry one of the hooks off without killing myself.

That left my last choice, and, having seen how low the sun had reached in the sky - I tested my fates and wrapped my hand in the bed throw.

In hindsight, I had made a huge mistake - but my body was rushing with its usual power-hungry surge now and I couldn't slow down, not even a little bit. Ignoring all the pain and extreme bleeding, I blundered down the same hallway as before and lurched up, and up. Straight to the music from before.

The room was positively heaving with women. Naked women, white women - green ones! Don't mistake me, either, when I say white - I mean it literally, not figuratively. Literally no colour whatsoever. No depth or shading, just white like an opposite shadow.