Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
That night, Daisy dreamed the yellow notice multiplied. One becoming ten. Ten becoming a hundred. Papering the walls until she was drowning in yellow. Until the numbers grew teeth and began chewing through her walls.
She woke gasping as the radiator screamed. Grey dawn was already approaching.
When she entered work, she didn’t immediately start her day. Fingers frozen, she went straight to the bathroom, as was her ritual. It took a while for the water to warm, so she started the faucet and sat on the closed toilet lid as she waited, head in her hands, gathering strength rather than falling apart.
Once the water started to steam and she’d had a chance to find some motivation for the day, she washed her hands until feeling returned to her fingers. That was when she saw it.
A square emerald envelope of the richest linen paper she’d ever seen.
Frowning, she dried her hands on her coat and carefully lifted it for a closer look. The envelope had no place in a rust-stained bathroom covered in cracked porcelain. She should turn it in to the Lost and Found. But when she turned it over, gold lettering flashing under the fluorescent light, she hesitated.
* * *
Open Me.
* * *
Tracing the command with trembling fingers. How could anyone write such pretty letters? The metallic calligraphy was hand-done.
Curiosity got the better of her. Glancing at the door to assure herself it was locked, she looked back at the formal envelope, examining it carefully. Her thumb slipped under the wax stamp, marked with the letters JT, and she broke the seal.
“Oopsy.”
Inside was a stiff single card. Same emerald paper, same gold lettering.
* * *
A single night to change the rest of your life.
www.FeastoftheFallen.com
* * *
She opened the envelope wider, searching inside. Nothing else. No explanation. No instructions. Just a stupid website advertisement.
The bin was overflowing with paper, so she stuffed the envelope in her pocket and rushed to her shift. Later, when she reached into her pocket on the walk home, she remembered it was there. The library was a mile detour from her usual walk home, and Daisy sometimes stopped in just for the warmth and a change of scenery.
Once at a computer, she typed the address carefully. “Feast of the fallen dot com.”
The screen went emerald, and gold filigree bloomed from the edges. Intricate vines twisted into scrollwork that breathed words onto the page one letter at a time.
* * *
A single night to change the rest of your life.
* * *
She scrolled down, finding a survey of sorts.
* * *
When someone takes control, do you fight, follow, or test them?
* * *
She frowned at the odd question, a strange flutter in her stomach. Not quite fear, not quite excitement, but trembling anticipation caught between the two.
Not thinking much about the answer, she scrolled on.
* * *
If surrender were safety, would you still call it weakness?
* * *
Weakness was a word invented by people who could afford to be that analytical. When it was a choice between pride and eating, the label didn’t matter, but survival did.
* * *
What part of you becomes real only in darkness?
* * *
She scrolled lower, and a warning message appeared.
* * *
You’ve made it this far, but given very little in return.
This only works as an exchange.
Without trust, there can be no reward.
You must answer the questions to reach the reward.
Honesty is weighted higher than grammar.
Desperation carries its own eloquence.
* * *
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. If it was some sort of game, she truly had nothing to lose. Everything of meaning was already gone.
She filled in one answer, then another, each one leading to the next with a satisfying hit of dopamine, praising her progress along the way. She didn’t care if it was artificial and meaningless. Being commended for her efforts warmed the hollows of her heart.
As the survey went on, the questions became more personal. She was less concerned with guarding her innermost thoughts and more invested in the cathartic outlet the questions provided.
Maybe this was why rich people spoke to therapists. She’d been holding a lot inside since her mother died, and now, she could finally let some of the pain and worry out.
* * *
I lost my mother to a disease we couldn’t afford to treat. My father, a storm that passed through and left wreckage in its wake, was never mine to begin with. Nothing can replace the family I’ve lost because they aren’t things. They’re people. But for a short moment, they were mine. And when you’re not given much in this world, you learn to appreciate what little you have.
* * *
“We close in twenty minutes.”
Daisy hurried to finish, now invested and needing to see this survey to the end. She skimmed each question, filling in more and more details about herself. It was a thorough emotional check-up and one she might have needed more than she realized.