Chapter 6
When we got home, everyone’s expressions were strange, reminiscent of the time Tiffany
had visited.
“Arthur, why are you back so late? Isn’t it cold outside?” Tiffany asked with concern, directing the servants to bring tea, acting every bit the
hostess.
“Cary, do you remember her?” Arthur ignored her, looking back at me with interest.
I shook my head.
“Doesn’t she resemble you a bit?” Arthur smiled. That smile was familiar; it always meant I was about to plunge into a nightmare.
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“If Cary doesn’t behave well, she will be taking your place.” Arthur’s grip tightened.
Tiffany was dressed in my clothes, her makeup meticulously crafted to resemble mine. Arthur watched me for a long time, while I, with my innocent expression, didn’t care about his
words.
“Where’s my mom?” I asked.
“She… went out. She’ll be back in a couple of days.” Arthur said as he gently carried me to the bedroom. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment.
“Mom left suddenly too, I really don’t know.” He added, placing me on the bed and tucking me
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- in. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Cary.”
He kissed my forehead and turned off the light.
“Go to sleep. Good night, Cary.”
I sighed and casually replied, “Good night,
Artie.”
Arthur’s body stiffened. The air turned eerily
chilly.
“What did you just call me?”
“What? I didn’t call you anything, I just…”
“Who the hell told you to call me that!!!” Arthur, like a furious wolf, lunged at me, pressing my head down, his eyes raging.
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“Carina! How dare you call me that!!!”
Artie. Arthur’s mother always called him that.
Mrs. Menzie was a beautiful woman. Whether
at the affluent housewives‘ gatherings or accompanying Mr. Menzie to social events, she spoke gently and behaved gracefully, embodying the ideal wife and mother that
people admired. Yet, Mr. Menzie rarely came home.
When it was just the three of us, Mrs. Menzie seemed like a different person. She would dig her red nails into Arthur’s skin, leaving bruises,
and use Mr. Menzie’s belt to mark his bare back
with bleeding welts. She called Arthur a useless little wretch, saying it cost her aging nearly a
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decade to give birth to him.
Arthur would kneel on the ground, clutching her legs, repeatedly apologizing, begging, “Mom, please don’t hate me.”
But I knew it was Mr. Menzie she hated, who didn’t love her anymore. After her rage subsided, Mrs. Menzie would sometimes hold Arthur tightly, blow on his wounds, and apologize: “Artie, I’m sorry. Mommy loves
you…”
In those moments, Arthur’s eyes would fill with happiness. But that look of happiness vanished
when Arthur turned ten.
On a night when the sky was filled with brightly coloured fireworks, Mrs. Menzie took Arthur to
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the rooftop. Mr. Menzie had decided to abandon her. So, she decided to take their son with her. It
seemed fair.
It was I who pulled Arthur back at the last moment. His mother fell, becoming a burst of blood–red firework against the floor. Like the reflection to the sky.
After that, Arthur developed avoidant attachment disorder, acting half angel, half
demon.
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