Preslee Sutherland
Visual Art Editor
The number eight echoes in the back of my head. Eight. I have only eight to decide. Eight. Eight steps. Eight Seconds. Or I could die.
My tiny, black heels echo through the dark halls. The marble tile presses up against the balls of my feet. Family portraits line the walls. A little girl holding her father’s hands with his stern face and her bright smile juxtaposing each other. An old man sitting behind his large, elegant oak desk and grey hairs lining under his nose. Each frame is surrounded by the same gold frames. No chips. No wear. No tear. No life.
I hear a squeak come from across the mansion and my body jumps. I hold my breath for a moment, too scared to make a sound. I squint my eyes to see if anyone’s there. While focusing on the absent dark laid in front of me, I adjust my silky crimson dress that accentuates my curves just right and gather the courage to treck on.
I can only take eight steps. Do I go into the lounge or continue down the hall to the dining room? The lounge has a velvet loveseat where I can rest my feet for a moment, and it only has one door where I will remain safe from the others. However, the dining room was where the body was found. There could be more information awaiting me inside. If I pick the lounge, I might be wasting my time, but the thought of taking off these heels even for only a moment makes my legs tremble with weakness.
I pull out a crumpled piece of notebook paper from between the cleavage inside my low-cut dress. Its coffee-stained paper has darkened over time. There’s a line drawn across a few words, such as “study” and “rope.” Words like “lounge” and “knife” remain untouched. I crumple the paper up again and stuff it back into my dress.
I’m running out of time; I have to make a decision. I take one last glance down at my tired ankles, and I know what my decision is. The lounge. I have to take off these terrible shoes.
One. My shoe clashes against the marble. Two. Click. Three. Four. Five. Six. Click. Seven. I’m at the door.
I push the heavy, mahogany door open. It creaks as its old, golden hinges stretch. The sound of the dry metal echoes down the hall behind me. I twist my head around, making sure no one is lingering a few steps away. I steady my palm against the ancient door before taking a long deep breath and pushing myself inside. Eight.
The room is almost pitch black except for the steady stream of moonlight seeping in from the windows. Dust lingers in the air, filling the white glow with grey specks. Right next to the doorway is a tall lamp. I pull down its delicate string, and it springs to life with a soft warm light filling part of the room. The light flickers a few times and then decides to remain shining. White furniture covers lie halfway off their designated chairs and couches. From the looks of them, they have sun damage making them all appear with a yellowish hue.
The loveseat is in the center of the room. It bloody-red velvet fabric complements the pure gold feet that touch the cold marble ground. The marble has scratches from furniture getting shifted around. This might be the only sign that a family actually lived here long ago.
My heels click against the tile once more until I’m standing directly in the center of the room with the loveseat. I press my body down on the glorified chair and let its comfy cushion engulf my bosom. I let my body relax, forgetting the beauty standards I must uphold. I gently slide off the daggers on my feet and let them clank on the ground. I let out a sigh of relief from finally relinquishing the pain. Beauty equals pain. And as Ms. Scarlett, I have a standard to uphold.
Leaning my back against the arm of the seat, I let my eyes fall half closed. I think about the notebook paper once again. Both Ms. Peacock and Mr. Green remain uncrossed on the list.
I let my mind envision the murder happening. Ms. Peacock holding a bloody knife, standing over Mr. Body as he lay dead in the kitchen. Her bouncy curls hopping up and down as she sobs uncontrollably.
Or it could be Mr. Green holding a revolver against Mr. Body’s chest. A smug smile climbs his face as he cocks the gun. I haven’t been able to rule out either scenario yet. I still have a few turns to guess.
I open my eyes again, watching the wide-open door for fellow guests to stumble in. After I determine no one is wandering down the hall towards me, I let my eyes scan the room for anything I missed when I first walked in. I look from the coffee table to the glass chess board that sits near the window. Then, at the bookshelf, and that’s where I see it: the candlestick. It still looks as lovely as it did in the center of the dining room table.
I quickly gather my strength to stand on my feet and dash across the room to the potential murder weapon. I snatch it from the shelf and bring it over to the lamp to fully examine it. Its metal is untouched and perfectly polished. I rotate the cylinder in my hands a few times before determining it couldn’t have been used in a murder. The metal is flawlessly straight, and if it had been bashed against a person, the delicate gold would have formed a dent.
I set the candlestick back on the bookshelf and walk back over to the loveseat where I left my shoes. I pull out the crumpled paper once again. “Candlestick” jumps out to me immediately. I reach for my long chestnut hair that sits in a high bun, and I remove the pencil that’s holding it tightly together. I feel soft curls fall against my open back as I take the pencil tip to the chocolate paper. I scratch the graphite into the paper, making “candlestick” barely readable.
I place the paper back into its home in between my breasts and wrap my hair up with the pencil again. Then, I bend down to pick up my feet-killing-machines without bothering to put them back on my feet. Forget being a lady. I’ll be stealthier this way.
After one last look around the lounge, I pull on the lamp’s weak string again, leaving the room in almost pure nightly black. Looking out into the lifeless hallway, I take a deep breath.
Before I can take a step out of the room, I hear a sound.
“Preslee, it’s your turn.” The voice echos through my head. I lift my head, looking around for the sound. “Preslee!”
My eyes snap out of my haze. I blink. Once. Twice. I’m no longer in the glorious, rich mansion. I’m in my grandmother’s living room. I’m no longer in my silk, formal gown. I’m in my dark blue pajama pants. A game board sits in front of me on the floor.
The dice sit in the center of the board, and Ms. Scarlett remains unmoved. I pick up the cold cubes in my hand and shake. They rattle around a few times in my hand before I release them onto the cardboard map, making a clicking sound as they scatter.
Eight dots look back at me.