The next corridor was narrower intentionally. The walls leaned in like ribs in a cage. The air turned metallic, damp with something old, holy, and wrong.
And here?
The memories were no longer fragmented.
They were ritual.
Paintings lined the walls each one a scream.
But the mouths had no faces. Just red smears where identity had been scraped away. Each title read like a sermon:
Preparation – Silence
Obedience – The First Cut
Purity – No Voice
The brushstrokes were wild. Violent. Painted by hands that either trembled or should have.
To her right stood sculptures.
Girls in temple robes, frozen mid-motion, arms flung out, backs arched, mouths open in expressions that weren't quite ecstasy and weren't quite pain. Their skin bore carved runes, some glowing faintly, others crusted with red-black stone like scabs.
One girl knelt.
A blade hovered just above her spine, suspended. Her hands reached for nothing. There was nothing to hold. Not comfort. Not mercy. Not even a name.
Asha looked away.
And found something worse.
Offering #43
Not a painting. Not a sculpture.
A jar.
Tall. Thin. Crystal-clear.
Inside: thick, red liquid. Still. Unmoving. Eternal.
A gold label at the base read, in delicate script:
She Didn't Scream Loud Enough.
Behind it: more jars. Dozens.
Each one numbered. Each with its own brutal truth:
#27 – She Cried, But Not For Them
#61 – She Bled Beautifully
#88 – She Was Silent, So They Called It Consent
Asha stopped breathing.
Just for a moment.
Then stepped forward.
Her footfalls echoed louder now. Not because the room had changed—Because she had.
She didn't touch the jars. She didn't need to. She already knew the taste.
Perfection Hurts Quietly
It took up an entire wall.
Floor-to-ceiling, framed in silver so polished it reflected her as she approached.
Her. But not her.
The woman in the painting stood radiant. Chin tilted. Eyes shining. Smile soft. Untouchable.
It was the version the world wanted.
And yet—
Her mouth was frozen in a silent scream.
Stretched too wide. Painted over too many times to ever be erased.
Up close, the truth unraveled:
Cracks.
Hairline fractures ran across her porcelain skin like spiderwebs. Each one glowed faintly, not with hope, but pain.
Behind every scar that had been edited, erased, softened—
She still burned.
She stared for a long time.
Then turned her back on it.
She didn't touch it.
Didn't cry.
She just moved on.
Because that was her sacred duty.
🪞 The Johns
The corridor narrowed again.
No paintings.
No sculptures.
Only mirrors.
Dozens. Hundreds. Each one rippling with illusion magic, settling into images of her.
But not her.
Versions of her.
Smiling. Giggling. Moaning. Performing.
Each one customized for the faceless figure standing beside her. Their features blurred. But their hands were always present.
Stroking her cheek
Pulling her hair
Tilting her head just so
She walked among them like a ghost.
Each mirror shimmered as she passed, reflecting a new version of herself—different laugh, different moan, different need to please.
She tried not to flinch.
Then—
One mirror cracked.
No warning. No sound. Just a thin, jagged line, splitting her reflection down the middle.
The version inside that mirror didn't smile. Didn't beg. Didn't perform.
Just stared.
Blank.
Empty.
Asha exhaled.
And kept walking.
Not because she was ready—
But because turning back would mean choosing that life again.
The hall narrowed to a single space.
Not a room, just a hush. A final breath held too long.
And at its center:
A pedestal.
No gold. No velvet. Just cold stone. And truth.
Atop it stood a statue of herself, fractured, mosaic-like. Broken pieces reassembled with desperate hands and too much hope. The seams still oozed. The glue never set.
Her figure was bent, not bowed.
As if the weight of being had finally become too much.
Her body shimmered with cracks.
Thousands of them, spine, throat, legs, arms. Some jagged. Some delicate. Porcelain veining, but deeper.
Every shard held a memory. She could feel it.
What held it all together?
A mask.
Not worn held.
Two raw, shaking hands gripped it in front of her face.
Split down the middle:
One side, the painted smile of comedy. The other, the smeared tear of tragedy.
Her real face was hidden.
Not from shame—
But because no one had ever looked beyond the act.
And her hands—
Gods.
Her hands were bleeding.
Bone-deep. Torn wide. Locked around the mask like it was both lifeline and weapon. The blood wasn't fresh, but it hadn't dried either.
It was ritual. Ongoing. Endless.
At the base, a plaque.
No shimmer. No song.
Just a single line etched in cursive gold:
"She smiled. Because she had to."
Asha didn't move.
Didn't blink.
She just stood there.
The pain wasn't a scream.
It was a quiet ache that spread through her ribs like frost, slow, invasive, inescapable.
When her knees finally shook, she didn't fall.
She reached out.
Braced her palm against the wall, one breath, one heartbeat, one inch of her spine still standing.
Not because she wanted to move forward.
But because somewhere beneath the bruised glass and bleeding masks—
She still could.