"Fear is like fire. If controlled it will help you; if uncontrolled, it will rise up and destroy you."
— John F. Milburn
This is where the Acts started to change.
No longer just the slicing of my arms, the tug of a scalpel across my skin — something I could brace for, learn to expect, in theory. This was different.
This was psychological. Cruel in a way I wasn't prepared for, and Tyler knew that. He didn't need to hurt me with blades anymore, he'd already drawn enough blood to last a lifetime. Now, he wanted something else.
Full control. Not just of my body, but of my mind. My reactions. Everything.
He was a puppeteer and I was his puppet.
The rules were changing, and I was already too late to catch up. Because he had found a new way in.
And this time, he didn't need to touch me at all.
The first thing I noticed was the smell.
Thick. Coppery. Sharp. It clawed up my nose and sat at the back of my throat like rusted metal and rotting carcasses. I gagged before I even opened my eyes.
My skin stuck to the table beneath me, tacky with sweat. My arms were restrained again — wrists pulled taut, forearms facing up, legs strapped down, body locked into a chair I didn't remember being placed in.
I was back in the Act Room.
And I knew even without looking up. He was there.
Standing just to my left was Tyler, dressed in a black tuxedo as always, too neat and out of place, his hair pushed back like he'd raked his hand through it a few times. He wore that classic thin smirk that said, "I have you right where I want you."
His eyes swept over me, slow and indulgent. "Welcome back, princess," he purred. "Did you sleep well?"
I didn't answer with words. I couldn't. My mouth was dry, and the dread had already begun to curdle my stomach. I slowly shook my head, the sweat cooling on my arms making me shiver involuntarily.
He chuckled and turned his back to me as he fiddled with something at the far wall to my left.
"I hope you're prepared, Emily. I've got something... really special planned for you."
Then I saw the bucket.
Sat at his feet, dented and old, the kind of thing you'd find in a janitor's closet or under a rusted sink. But it wasn't empty.
Even from where I sat, I could see the glint of red — something viscous, gelatinous, and dark — filled to the brim.
Tyler crouched beside it, swirling the contents with a gloved finger like it was paint. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled with a theatrical sigh, eyes fluttering shut for half a second in mock ecstasy.
"You always think the worst is behind you," he said, standing and wiping his finger along the side of his trousers. "That's what I love about you, Em. That hopeful little heartbeat of yours."
He turned fully to face me now, and in his other hand, I saw something else, almost worse than the bucket: a mirror. Not a weapon, just a plain, rectangular mirror. It made no sense. And that's exactly why it scared me.
"What...?" My voice came out cracked and small, tears welling up in my eyes.
Tyler's smile widened. "Oh, you'll see."
He walked closer, crouched before me, and lifted the mirror so it angled toward my face. It caught the glare of the overhead light and blinded me for a moment.
"I want you to really look at yourself this time. No more hiding. No more dissociation. No more little tricks your brain plays to get you through. Okay?"
I jolted and turned my head away, but he grabbed my jaw and tilted it until I was forced to look at myself.
Tear-stained cheeks. Dilated pupils. Skin pale, arms bare and scarred.
"You see that?" he said, his voice a dangerous murmur. "That's the real you. The one that cries. The one that fears. Not this act you keep playing."
I started hyperventilating, my eyes wide, pleading, desperate.
"You will watch yourself," he said, voice soft now, deadly calm. "That's the game today."
He hadn't brought me here just to torture me. This was a performance. I was both the star and the audience. And my mind splintered again. I felt it.
"You've been so brave recently," he said, almost condescendingly, "Brave or reckless, there's a fine line, and I'm leaning towards the latter."
He stood and shrugged the tux jacket off his shoulders, loosened the tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves. His eyes never left mine, and mine never left his.
I was sobbing at this point. "Why are you doing this?" I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks.
He leaned in. I didn't flinch. Not until he said this:
"Because you need to be taught a lesson, to respect your superiors, stop meddling in other people's business, and stop pretending you're someone you're not."
My vision darkened at the edges. "No," I whispered, defiant even in this state.
But he was already sliding into the seat opposite, ready to start. He looked light, deeply satisfied. And that disturbed me almost as much as his actions.
"Act Four starts now, princess."
"Please—" My voice broke out, mid-gag.
He just smiled.
I wanted to scream, to bite, to claw at his eyes — but all I could do was shake my head. My breath caught in my throat, sharp and panicked. The restraints tightened around my wrists.
Tyler straightened, smiling like a proud parent. Like I was a painting and this was his unveiling.
"Pain is primitive, Emily. Reliable but predictable. You adapt to it. Harden against it. I needed something... purer."
He turned toward the bucket again.
"Something emotional."
I didn't realise what was happening until he reached for the jug. A plain, white plastic jug.
And then he filled it with blood.
Not paint.
Not syrup.
Not animal.
Human blood.
I knew it instantly. The colour was too dark, too thick. A deep maroon, almost black around the edges. And the smell hit me all at once.
I whimpered helplessly, thrashing against the restraints, gagging profusely. The smell intensified, metallic and dirty, like rotten meat.
"No—no no no—" I choked, bile rising, sobbing now in earnest. "Please—please don't—"
But Tyler only tilted his head, eyes glittering. "I'm going to enjoy this."
He lifted the jug.
Then tilted it.
A slow, deliberate pour.
Thick red liquid cascaded over my bare arms, pooling in the grooves of my scars, running along the cold metal table like the paint of a slaughterhouse floor. Sticky and slow-moving, seeping into the bends of my elbows, running along my forearm like hot tar.
It was warm.
Still warm.
I screamed.
My whole body convulsed as I watched it soak into my skin, my sleeves, my fingertips. My eyes widened, bloodshot, horror bleeding into every inch of me.
It was on me. In me. Everywhere.
I started convulsing.
Tyler laughed — soft and breathy, like he'd just witnessed something amazing.
"Look at you," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with sick delight. "You wear blood better than anyone I've ever met."
"Stop—please stop—!" I couldn't breathe.
He held the mirror up again. "Look at yourself."
I refused.
He slammed it down beside me, glass cracking. "I said look!"
And this time, I did.
But it was like watching someone else.
A girl strapped to a table, soaked in red, chest heaving, mouth stretched in a silent scream. Her face pale. Her eyes wild. Her whole body trembling.
That wasn't me.
But it was.
"Now that," Tyler whispered, dragging his fingers through the blood on my forearm, "is art."
Another pour. The weight of it, the wetness, the slow creep across the table. The blood was everywhere now — on the dress, under my thighs, soaking through the black shorts. My skin itched and crawled all over.
Then something snapped in me.
Memory. Flash. Colour. Scent.
And I was gone.
Amber's in the kitchen.
Orange dress, floral pattern, stained with something darker now.
It's too quiet.
There's blood on the tiles.
Too much blood.
I can smell it. I can taste it. My feet are stuck to the floor, shoes glued by something sticky.
Her arm twitches.
I'm not sure if it's real or just a leftover nerve reflex.
I try to move, but I'm frozen. My eyes find her neck.
Slit. All the way across.
Her head is tilted sideways, hair damp, eyes glazed over but still open. Her mouth is parted slightly, as if she died in the middle of a sentence.
I can't close my eyes. Can’t blink.
Her father is standing there, still holding her upright. Like a doll.
His hands are red.
He has no face. Where his features should be, there's nothing. Just skin, blank and featureless, because my memory erased him.
Mum screams.
Not just any scream — a full, guttural, blood-curdling wail that shakes the walls.
A scream only a mother can make.
I scream too, crying hysterically, too young to fully comprehend it all.
Just eight years old.
Witness.
In the Act Room, in the present, I resurfaced, screaming again.
Full-throated, feral, raw. The kind of scream that had no words in it, just terror. I couldn't stop it. Couldn't breathe through it. My entire body trembled, spasm after spasm as I thrashed.
"Emily," a voice crooned.
I barely reacted to him, still reacting to the memory and the blood on me. For a second I thought I was still in the kitchen, staring at Amber's body.
I was back on the table.
Back in Tyler's world.
Back in this other side of hell.
Tyler crouched in front of me again, cupping my cheek.
"You passed out," he murmured, mock-concerned. "Poor thing."
My chest heaved, teeth chattering. "Stop! P-Please!"
He stepped forward. Placed two fingers under my chin.
"Do you know what I love most about you?" he asked softly, crouching in front of me again.
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. His voice was smooth, reverent. "You remind me of someone... someone I used to know..."
He reached out, brushing a strand of damp hair from my face, then let his fingers trail down, slow and deliberate, smearing blood across my cheek.
"And no matter how much pain I put you through," he murmured, "no matter how matted your hair is... how dirty you look..."
His thumb lingered at my jaw, and he smiled, not kindly. He paused, just long enough to feel dangerous.
"You always look the same."
He leaned in close, so close I could feel the heat of his breath ghost over my skin.
"Beautiful... Just like her ."
Then he stopped and gulped, his Adam's Apple bobbing. His eyes widened slightly. Like he hadn't expected to say it.
A flicker crossed his expression — not regret, not guilt — but something human. Then, he blinked. Hard. Whole face creasing as if it hurt. And just as fast, it all vanished. He put the mask back on. His face hardened, desperately trying to regain control.
He inhaled sharply and stood, stumbling back. But he didn't move away. He just stood there, staring at me, trying to feign anger.
But I'd seen it. Heard it.
For one breathless second, he'd let me see past the show. Past the tailored suit and curated cruelty. And in that moment, something cracked in him, too.
A glimpse of the man beneath the monster. A glimpse of truth.
I sat there, soaked in blood, now trembling under the weight of a memory that, for once, wasn't mine.
I had so many questions, so many things I wanted to say. But I was frozen as he was.
We remained silent for a while, both climbing down from different emotional heights.
When he finally moved, his whole demeanour had changed. Back to his 'normal.'
He began unfastening the restraints. One by one.
"You're ready," he said, voice calm but kind of distant. "You just don't know it yet."
When the last strap was undone, I slumped forward. My arms fell limply to my sides. My legs gave out the moment he hauled me upright by the shoulder. Still covered in blood, I barely registered him gripping my arm. My feet dragged behind me.
We walked in silence.
The trail I left on the concrete floor glistened behind us.
And I didn't ask where we were going.
Because I thought I already knew.