If I Take a Chance

A single tear cascaded through the thick white powder that covered Caelia’s cheeks, its path ending as it stained the pristine fabric of her off-white wedding dress. She flinched as the cruel maid struck her knuckles with a wooden stick, the sharp sting briefly drowning out the dread that gnawed at her soul. A part of her longed for the pain to grow, to consume her entirely, or a fatal wound that would save her from her fate that evening.

Her hollow gaze drifted to the window. The shimmering heat haze rising from the desert momentarily caught her attention, offering a brief escape from her mounting fears. But the illusion was fleeting, and the weight of her reality soon pressed down on her once more. The haze was weakening, the heat subsiding. The evening was fast approaching, and with it, her wedding—an event that loomed over her like a death sentence. The memory of the man she had met that morning, her future husband, churned in her mind. His rancid breath that had brushed her skin, and those yellowed teeth, sharp and crooked, remained etched in her memory.

The newly-built estate where she now stood, deep within the desert’s unforgiving sands, was vast and imposing. A mansion that belonged to Malcom Dunsmore, an aging, corpulent man who had purchased her like a piece of property. He had dared to build the estate on tribal lands, where legends whispered of magical beings on the descendants of monsters, but Dunsmore held no fear of the natives or their fables. His wealth made him untouchable, or so he believed. It was to this mansion that Caelia had been dragged earlier that day, sold like livestock to the highest bidder.

As an illegitimate child, she had known only hardship in her father’s home, forced to serve as a maid. His legitimate daughters had treated her with cruelty, jealous of her more fortunate features and relishing in her misfortune. Yet when her father had sought to secure an alliance with Dunsmore, it was Caelia he chose to offer. She had been plucked from the servants' quarters, scrubbed and dressed as though she were nobility, and paraded before her father’s lecherous guests.

Her beauty had been remarked upon by his advisors, who spoke of her body in crude terms, praising the way it would please her new husband. And when she was finally presented to Dunsmore, her father and fiancé had laughed together, exchanging vulgar comments about her appearance, her figure, and the shameful thrill it had brought them both.

Caelia stared into the mirror, her reflection a vision of beauty that revolted her. Her generous breasts and narrow waist were the marks of a body that was no longer hers. Dark thoughts crept into her mind as she imagined ways to mar the perfection that bound her to this nightmare. If she could mutilate herself before the ceremony, perhaps she could avoid the horror of what was to come.

But then, from across the courtyard, her eyes caught something—a flicker of possibility. The old maid, as callous as ever, had swung the heavy gate open, her arrogance making her careless. She let the bolt bounce back, assuming it had locked. It hadn’t. Caelia’s pulse quickened as she watched, barely daring to hope and a spark of desperate hope flared to life inside her.

Without hesitation, she began to move, her grief forgotten in the wild scramble for survival. She scanned the room in a frenzy, searching for anything that could disguise her before the opportunity slipped away. Her gaze landed on a basket of laundry outside a building across the courtyard.

Heart pounding, Caelia hitched up her dress and climbed through the window, abandoning all grace, all concern for her well-being. She dropped to the ground outside, her legs scraping against the stone, but the pain barely registered. She was like a caged animal, frantic, desperate, and focused on nothing but escape.

Reaching the laundry basket, she rifled through its contents, hands trembling as she pulled out a maid’s uniform and a thin gray cloak, its hem stained with dirt. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do. Tugging the garments over her wedding dress, she worked quickly to hide her identity. Her long, silvery hair was the most difficult to conceal, strands refusing to stay tucked beneath the hood. She fought with them, pulling the fabric tightly over her head, knowing that even a glimpse of her pale locks could betray her.

When she slipped through the gate, her breath caught in her throat. The courtyard was empty, and she moved swiftly, her heart racing as she crossed another courtyard and ducked into the shadows of the estate’s walls. She hurried from the outskirts of the mansion to the servants' lodgings on the edge of the estate, cowering when men passed by, her hood pulled low, her lips pressed into a thin line to hide their full, red shape.

As the temperature dropped with the fading sun, Caelia pulled the coat tighter around herself, wishing it was a little warmer. At last, she reached a small recessed section of the outermost wall, a heavy metal door embedded at its end. The residual heat from the sun radiated through the surface, and the burning sensation stung her palms as she gripped the door, crossing the final threshold before she felt sand beneath her feet.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Caelia allowed herself to exhale, though the breath came out shaky and uncertain. She stood still, unsure of what to do next. The vastness of the desert stretched out before her, offering the bleak promise of freedom, but also the threat of death. For a moment, the thought settled in her mind—she could simply walk into the endless expanse of sand and let the desert claim her. That way, no one would ever drag her back.

Just as she was about to take her first step into the wilderness, movement caught her eye. Two figures were approaching in the sand, following the wall’s curve. Panic seized her. Two men, their bronze skin glinting in the fading light, their clothes unfamiliar and strange. She couldn’t let them see her, couldn’t risk being caught after coming so far.

Reluctantly, Caelia slipped back through the metal door, retreating into the shadows of the servant’s area. She pressed her back against the cool stone and waited, heart pounding, listening for their footsteps to fade.

Then, in the quiet, something else caught her attention. She turned and froze. A man lay sprawled in the middle of the floor, his body eerily still. Caelia’s breath hitched as she scanned the sandy track, hoping to spot someone who could help him, someone who might explain what had happened. But as she peered further, her stomach twisted in dread.

There were more bodies.

Littered across the floor like fallen leaves, their lifeless forms scattered without pattern, without mercy. The eerie silence, once a refuge, now felt suffocating. The wind outside howled faintly, but no sounds came from the sprawling estate, there was nothing—no sound, no movement. Only death.