Hollow.

  I'm hollow.

  My chest is hollow; where is my heart?

  My eyes are hollow; where are my eyes?

  My mind is hollow; where is my soul?

  I licked-

  My tongue scraped along the vile carpet, scooping up every bit of milk it could find.

  -and licked.

  Like a dog; their dog.

  "Honey! Don't do that, it's dirty!"

  Mother's voice echoed from above.

  But.

  Before my eyes were her stable feet, her still body.

  She didn't bother moving.

  I could feel her eyes on the back of my neck; I could feel her intent in the pits of my stomach.

  Yet.

  Yet!

  Peace.

  I still feel peace as I lick the milk between the caverns of her parted toes.

  It terrifies me.

  All I feel besides maddening emptiness is:

  Horror.

  The familiar sensation of horror.

  The only partner I have in this madness.

  ...

  I don't know when my feeding session ended.

  Nor do I know when she picked me up.

  Nor do I remember when she changed my diaper and clothing.

  But it happened at some point.

  And I'm no longer hungry.

  Funnily enough though—I feel an emptiness in my stomach.

  ...What do I do?

  The image of my sister fshed through my mind.

  ...I need to get her out of here.

  The emptiness within me began to fill with a goal.

  ...I need to save her.

  That then begs the question:

  How?

  How do I save her?

  I didn't even know her location, condition, or whether she was still alive; everything was a mystery to me. However, this didn't deter me.

  ...I'll come up with something.

  With this base goal in mind, I returned my attention to the present.

  To my current situation.

  To the woman bearing me in her arms;

  My mother.

  Our mother.

  Maybe a clue to reuniting with my sister lies in her goals. What is she doing this to me for? If I can figure that out, or even if I only get a hint of the answer, I may y my eyes on the path ahead—a path clear of these horrors.

  "What's wrong, sweetie? Is mother pretty~?" Her saccharine smile frothed to the brim with warmth and love, familial love.

  Mother's emotions and motives are utterly contradictory.

  How can she feel this love for me, this care for me, but all the same hurt me, starve me, and make me crawl like a dog?

  What is this woman?

  What is this pce?

  This world?

  Lowering my gaze from mother's loving sapphire eyes, I leaned into her embrace as usual. I had to wait a while longer before I could try anything:

  I have to wait till nighttime.

  But hey, at least I'm not starving anymore; with that self-deprecating thought mocking myself, I shut my eyes to whatever day this was. It won't be long before I can give those corridors another try.

  -----

  Night.

  The aurora had long set, leaving the room in dim lighting. To this day, I have yet to glimpse the moon through the windows.

  But setting those curiosities aside, I arose from my bed.

  Hopping onto the cold, damp, milk-stained floor...

  Damn it.

  I trudged over to the stool beside the cupboard and shuffled it over to the door. I'm still too short to reach the door knobs on my two wobbly feet.

  After a short struggle with the handles, the right door croaked open.

  Pushing my body between the gaps, I entered the corridor. The skylights flooded the corridor with moonlight, allowing a solid view of the vases, paintings, luxurious carpeting, and architecture.

  Again, the paintings were a dreary white.

  The vases were quiet and the corridor endless.

  If walking to the sides is fruitless, and the other doors here are both unreachable and visibly locked...

  Let's see what these paintings are about.

  ...And if the paintings aren't enough, maybe knocking over a vase or two might help.

  I'm not an idiot.

  I know they're observing me.

  I know they're letting me roam these corridors.

  Maniputing emotions, maniputing space; what else can't they manipute?

  But.

  If they're going to let me do this, then...

  Let's fuck it up.

  What's stopping me?

  Until they do something about it-

  I pn on turning this shithole upside down.

  Hobbling over to the bedroom door, I used most of my strength to bring a 'heavy' chair over. Then, with the chair in pce, I made it so that the door wouldn't close all on its own once I stopped using the stool as a doorstop.

  With a stool in hand, I dragged it below the white painting.

  Pcing myself on the stool, I stood with my grubby hands pnted on my hips.

  Now then, how do I mess with it?

  Destroying it would be ideal, but I don't have enough reach or strength to do something like that.

  So, lifting my balled fists-

  Thud.

  I recoiled from the impact of smming my hand into the painting. The vibrations rattled my frail bones and brought tears to my eyes.

  Rubbing my hands together and huffing air at them, I composed myself then-

  Thud.

  Punched the painting again.

  Then-

  Thud.

  Again.

  Thud.

  Till the pain was unbearable and the scars of my eaten fingers bled; I pounded and pounded. However, after almost a dozen punches, only I came out with injuries and not the painting. I failed.

  If I can't get the painting...

  Hissing through my teeth, I pnted my now heavily bruised, bleeding, and scarred fingers into the holes of the stool. Dragging it to a table holding a vase, I stood on the stool again whilst rubbing the liquid collected beneath my eyes.

  Stretching my dainty arms, I thrust the vase forward-

  ...

  I thrust the vase forward-!

  ...

  Sighing, I retracted my arms.

  I didn't even move the vase an inch, let alone topple it.

  The painting strategy: failed.

  The vase strategy: failed.

  What next?

  Jumping off the terrace?

  I don't have a death wish.

  Hopping off the stool, I slumped to the ground and leaned on it; the majestic moonlight sifting past the skylights lit me up like the sole actor on a theatrical stage. With my strings cut, soul drained and mind worn out...

  I looked exactly like a cut marionette.

  A helpless fool.

  There was no guarantee I'd get to shamefully lick the milk off the floor the next time around. Perhaps tomorrow, I'd starve like the day before, and possibly tomorrow would be a day of punishment for tonight's actions.

  Maybe-

  No, probably.

  I wouldn't put it past them to dish out punishments for misbehaving.

  This isn't modern Earth, this is a world of fantasy with a severe ck of morals.

  Curling up with a cold shiver in my bones, my shivering teeth cttered together as I futilely sat there; I have no more pns.

  What could I possibly do?

  Open one of the other doors?

  They're locked.

  I can see the locks on them.

  Sighing, I dropped my head.

  What can I do?

  Open one of the other doors?

  They're locked.

  I can literally see the locks on them.

  So, what can I do?

  Open one of the other doors?

  They're locked.

  I can literally see the locks on them.

  ...They're locked.

  I can see the locks.

  ...They're locked.

  ...I see...

  I...

  ...?

  What was I just thinking?

  ...

  I was thinking...?

  ...

  ...When?

  Abruptly, and almost shockingly to my own confusion, I clutched my head.

  I dug my torn, bloodied fingers into my skin.

  When did I think?

  My throat silently bobbed as I gulped the air.

  If I was thinking, what was I thinking of?

  Penetrating goosebumps lined my skin, tingling every corner of my adrenaline-fueled brain; my heart rate almost doubled instantaneously.

  What?

  What is it?

  I was thinking of something.

  Something important.

  Locks.

  What was I thinking of?

  What skipped my mind?

  Locked doors.

  What is this fear gripping my heart?

  What am I forgetting?

  I instinctively dug into the memories of my past, of my life back on Earth.

  When you forget something, it is recommended to use cues to remember what you have forgotten;

  I'm trying to remember something.

  But I'm forgetting as I remember.

  This fact came shockingly to the forefront of my mind.

  I'm actively forgetting and remembering.

  So, what is it that is making me remember?

  I focused my dazed eyes and began observing my surroundings.

  The skylights oozing with moonlight, the white, endless paintings, the rows of locked doors, the vases...

  What is it?

  Again, I looked through everything.

  Skylight.

  White paintings.

  Locked doors.

  Vases.

  ...Everything seems right.

  I bit my lips with my growing baby teeth.

  But it's not right.

  Except, no matter how much I try and think of it;

  I don't know what's wrong.

  I couldn't remember.

  Skylight, white paintings, locked doors, vases.

  Again.

  Skylight, white paintings, locked doors, vases.

  Again.

  Skylight, white paintings, locked doors, vases.

  Then.

  Like a light bulb switching on in my dull brain, it came back.

  The missing information, the deleted information, the thing twisted in my memories.

  The doors.

  This time, I remembered.

  My lips curled up in an eerily familiar, amusing smile, a sinister smile.

  I won't forget it this time.

  That's right.

  The doors.

  The locked doors.

  ...Since when?

  Since when did I think the doors were locked?

  Since when did I automatically assume that to be the case?

  From the start.

  I've been fooled from the start.

  These doors;

  My eyes honed onto them.

  They've never been locked.