When Death Chases You

The scorching hot weather ultimately calms as the sun sets in the distance behind the barren and vast horizon. The sky fills with captivating shades of oranges and reds that brightly reflect upon the plain sand, making it mirror the aether above it. Desiccated ground cracks and dust particles fill the air as hooves rapidly stampede along a vague track leading to the indefinite horizon.

The black horse’s mane whisks in the wind but not enough to inconvenience the rider, Charlotte, mounted on top of it. She removes the hood of her mantle, revealing her pale pinkish-white skin, now covered in the sun’s tangerine sheen. Her dark hair, put up in a high ponytail, now liberated from the mantle, blows in the wind bouncing up and down in coordination with the steed’s every move.

She lets go of the reins, spreads her arms, and leans backward until her head is rested along the horse’s rear. She closes her dark eyes and reminiscences about the Middletons. It had been over three months since she left the estate, and she cannot even begin to express the yearning she’s had to forsake her undertaking and rush back to the benevolent and affectionate household that treated her as their own. But she persevered, completed her mission, and can now return proudly to the Madam and Master with integrity and the evidence she insists on bringing back after every mission.

Charlotte reaches inside her satchel hanging around the horse and takes out a small linen pouch with a wooden string tied around the top. She notices a damp spot around the bottom with slight red peeking through the cloth as she observes the linen pouch. Her tranquil expression turns sour, and her lips curl up in disgust. She sits forthrightly and rummages through the bag until she pulls out a rattling leather pouch of seemingly loftier quality.

She empties it, and a few coins of gold and silver pour out onto her hand, all of which she puts in the pockets of her jeans. She opens the linen pouch, quickly grabs the fleshy object found inside, and hurriedly places it into the leather pouch. After that, she puts the leather pouch in the bag but notices a red smear on her palm. She takes the dry part of the linen pouch and aggressively scrubs the smudge, even pouring water on the linen to completely get rid of the red on her palm.

The linen is coarse and feels like sandpaper grating her skin, but she doesn’t stop until she’s convinced that the stain is gone. When she’s sure, she tosses away the pouch, and the wind picks it up as it gently descends to the sand-covered ground. Her hand, now reddish pink from the rubbing, puts the hood back on her head and grasps the reins.

The sky has darkened, and a newfound gelidity can be felt in the air. As Charlotte looks towards the vast dark wasteland with cacti and dead trees, she grits her teeth, “only a few hours left.”

As a halved moon reaches its peak, golden lights can be seen illuminating the clouds from beneath in the distance; Charlotte was finally about to arrive at the Middleton estate. Deciduous forest increases as the dry sand gradually become dirt and grass. The vegetation is as verdant as it can get; sooner or later, the manor’s towering outer gates become visible.

Half a dozen guards are stationed outside the gate entrance, as expected from one of the most prominent aristocratic families in the south. The guards seem not to notice Charlotte and her horse approaching even though they are within a quarter kilometer of the walls; they instead seem to be having a lively exchange as faint laughter can be heard from afar.

Charlotte slows down as she gets nearer and nearer, but they still do not seem to detect her. It might be because she’s wearing a dark green mantle, and her horse is also dark, so she swiftly takes off the hood waiting for the guards to notice her presence. She quietly scoffs at the guards’ lack of awareness of potential threats that might bring harm to the master and Madam.

After a few more seconds, one of the guards does see something approaching, and the other guards follow promptly. They all cultch the rifles in their hands to prepare themselves.

As Charlotte approaches, she stops only a few meters in front of them, speedily jumps off the horse and seizes the reins with one hand. One of the guards closest to the gate aims his rifle at her, ready to fire at any moment, forcing her to stop directly in her tracks as she unhurriedly lifts her hands in the air.

The guard next to him squints his eyes as he scrutinizes Charlotte up and down and then says to the other guards-

“Stand down. She works for the marquess and marchioness”, he exclaims. The other guard slowly lowers his rifle as all the guards observe her.

Charlotte takes down her hands and starts walking toward the guards. The closer she gets to the guards and lanterns, the more her appearance becomes visible. She looks dreadful, her hair is messy from blowing in the wind, and her clothes are covered in dirt and sand.

“Her name’s Charlotte Downing; she’s a part of them, so just let her pass without trouble next time,” the guard who told them to stand down adds. He’s speaking specifically to the guard who had raised his rifle at her.

Charlotte approaches further as another guard raises the massive metal gate. As she steps through, she overhears the guard whispering something to the other,

“you’re lucky you didn’t shoot. I doubt you’d keep your life if you killed one of the marquess’ priced henchmen, though I wouldn’t mind having one less insect here.”

The glances being thrown Charlotte’s way were not ones of seeing a companion after a prolonged time but somewhat antagonistic ones towards an adversary, except the one who pointed his gun at her; his gaze was curious. Relatively uncommon, but it’s most likely because he’s a new recruit. He’ll soon come to dislike her as well, especially considering her reputation within the walls. It’s funny how putrid hatred can be directed at someone who doesn’t even know their name or face.

She’s conscious of some of the estate’s workers disliking her, mainly the soldiers.

She hears the clunking of the entrance shutting behind her as quietness falls again, leaving only the cricket’s call to be heard. She walks straight to the stables as her horse, Emelie, hasn’t rested in quite some time.

She eventually reaches the relatively smallish stable, housing only a few horses, but it’s well-kept and thoroughly taken care of. She puts Emelie in one of the boxes and grabs an old metal pail while heading for the well to fetch some water. The well is old, with moss growing on the exterior, and the pulley gives a screech with every pull as she lowers and raises the pail.

The water is frigid, and she wipes her face clean before providing the water to Emelie. Before she goes, she fills up on hay as she grabs her bags and leaves.

Charlotte exits the stable shrouded by forestry to walk onto the cobblestone trail leading to the main building. The pathway is long, but the scenery is beautiful, making the long walk slightly more bearable. As she sees the top floor of the main building, an archway of flowers greets her as she steps into the beauteous garden.

The smell of roses and cyclamen fills her nose, and the moonshine reflecting off the dew-covered lilies of the valley resembles millions of scattered rhinestones. The narcissuses appear as shining gold from the dim lamp post’s glare, and the red hibiscus parallels blood splatters among the greenery. All the leaves outside could never compare to the garden’s green vibrancy.

Such a paradisiacal view is one that no typical commoner would ever dream of getting to experience, except the Middleton’s workers.

Amid the garden is a large fountain with a sizeable marble sculpture. The sculpture is of a man wearing an unostentatious tuxedo and a pair of glasses sitting on an inexistent chair, supporting himself with a cane in his left hand while reading an ancient tome in the other. However, there’s something off about it.

An indescribable uneasiness befalls Charlotte whenever the statue enters her proximity.

It could be the bizarre stance, or the soulless eyes angled downwards that seemingly always follow you; leaving you exposed and feeling violated.

Charlotte can’t quite put her finger on it, but it makes her uncomfortable.

The closer she gets to the fountain, the louder the water, but the sound quickly disappears into the soft grass. Charlotte leans over to see her reflection in the water, but the ripples make it near impossible to discern any noticeable feature.

Finally, she gets out of her daze and remembers the main building she’s supposed to be headed. She walks through the garden and continues on the now stone-paved path through plain grasslands with the occasional lamp post to light up the trail. The other buildings are simply silhouettes beyond the glimmering dew-covered grass.

The land is so vast that you almost forget the enclosure’s enormous walls.

Charlotte stands at the foot of the stairs leading up to the entrance of the main building. With every step she takes, the more exhausted and impoverished she feels. Finally, she reaches the large wooden door with gold engravings, but before she manages to use the door knocker, the doors softly open with a slight creak to reveal the dimly lit interior. Inside is an enormous broad marble staircase, draped in a dark red carped with silver threads. Lanterns with candles on their last breath hang on the white stone walls.

In the middle of the staircase stands the head butler, Mr. Martin.

He must have seen her through the windows and opened the door for her. He looks at her, “Welcome back, Ms. Downing. I presume you’ve finished your errands?” his voice is calm but slightly tired.

“...Yes, Mr. Martin,” her voice was hoarser than she expected, surprising both of them. She awkwardly clears her throat as Mr. Martin squints his eyes.

“I will let the Madam know tomorrow morning that you’ve returned. Now let me escort you to your room,” the butler gestures with his arms for Charlotte to follow him, and she does, but now that reality has hit her, walking is becoming harder and harder.

The manor’s halls are long but narrow compared to the rest of the house. The walls are tapestried with mint green blooms, and the floor is dark brown. There are a few paintings here and there, mainly of previous Middleton’s, but also a few sceneries by renowned artists. After a while of walking. Charlotte reaches her destination, a dark oak door. She steps inside,

“a maid will arrive momentarily to fill the bath and provide you a comfortable night garment to rest in,” the butler informs. Charlotte thanks him and shuts the door.

The room was a simple guest room given to Charlotte in honor of her outstanding achievements. The room may seem very small for any typical aristocrat, but it’s massive for a peasant like Charlotte, whose previous rooms have all been 5 square meters or smaller. There is a king-sized bed in the center towards one of the walls and a door leading to the bathroom.

The room allegedly belonged to one of the young master’s previous fiancés, explaining the wardrobe filled with ball gowns and the escritoire with more than paper. Charlotte can hear a knock on the bathroom door from the other side. The maid must be finished with the preparations.

Charlotte waits a bit before opening the door, but when she does, it’s void of any people, just as she wants. The bath is filled to the brim with hot water, and pink flower petals float on top. Charlotte thinks it’s a bit excessive. She’s merely taking a bath to get clean, not for beautification.

Alas, she starts undressing. She firstly takes off the gun holster hanging around her hip that attaches to her leg, then the rest of her clothes; a dark taupe corset above a plain white button-up shirt, jeans, and combat boots reaching the middle of her calf.

She lets down her lengthy hair, and it falls past her backside. Long hair is a nuisance to take care of, but whenever she thinks of cutting it, she’s reminded of her mother’s infatuation with her long hair. Her mother spent hours brushing and playing with it while constantly showering Charlotte with compliments and tenderness.

The alabaster floor is frighteningly cold on her bare feet, so she quickly jumps into the congenially warm water. Her body shortly follows when her toes touch the hot bath water. She seeps into the soothing warmth that engulfs her body. The smell of roses and honey fills the air around her, and she washes her body thoroughly with a soap bar on a sideboard next to the bathtub.

Charlotte closes her eyes while she tilts her head back, releasing a massive sigh. She’s spent the last three months traveling from city to city, spending countless nights awake and on constant guard, but now she finally has time to relax. The tiredness finally takes hold of her body as she feels her consciousness slowly slip away beyond her grasp. Her thoughts slowly dissipate as they become replaced with an empty void. She takes one last aware breath before slumber overcomes her entirely.