" You sometimes think
you want to disappear,
but all you really want
is to be found "
- Anonymous.
When she opened her eyes again, she was back to the strange room. This time, it was draped in heavy burgundy velvet. She was wearing a gothic black lacy slip dress. Yet again, her hand was holding a brush and a palette.
She didn't fight against the force controlling her, she let it flow freely. Her hand mad bold stroke, till it took the form of a man. That was when she tried to stop it, but, she couldn't.
Maybe her subconscious knew what it meant. The door creaked open again. She welcomed the familiar presence of the stranger. This time, she could speak.
" I was waiting for you, mister." She said. She felt it was her voice but something was different. Perhaps, it was the way the voice didn't tremble. Or, it was the way it was filled with authority.
" I know milady, I was expecting you too." He replied calmly. She still couldn't see his face but, it was as if he was smiling.
" Then you know why I wished to see you?" She asked curiously.
" I have an idea, but finish up your painting before we start." He replied her again.
It got silent again as her hand started moving on its own again. The painting got more and more detailed. It started to take the form of her husband. After the final details were added, the painting looked as if it were real, as if he was there with her. Suddenly, she stopped.
"I presume I am done with the painting, mister." She whispered.
" No you're not. But for now, it's okay." He replied while looking at the canvas.
" Then … can I …?" She started.
" Yes, you can ask your question now."
" Where is this place? Who are you? What are these paintings? Did I made them? Or were they made by someone else? You called me by a name …Isaris … no, Isabis! Is it my name?" She began to ask one questions after the other.
" Breathe, my darling. I will only answer two questions from the lot. Calm down and choose the one that your mind whispers to you as the most important one. Remember, two questions only." He replied.
She was confused as to what she should ask him to give answers to.
" Okay. Where is this place?" She finally started.
" The kingdom you created yourself. Your kingdom." He replied
" Why do you call me Isabis?" She contemplated hard before asking this question.
" It is your name, my darling, because you're something beautiful and perfect ." He replied with an emotion so raw, adoring and revering. " That is all I can answer for now . We will meet again when you come back to finish the painting. Now go back and anticipate your eighteenth birthday. " That was the last thing she heard before she woke up.
*************
The morning sun cast a pale glow through the thin curtains, illuminating the modest room where she lay.She stirred, her mind still processing the remnants of the dream. The name echoed in her thoughts, a newfound identity that felt both foreign and intimately hers.
She reached for her little diary, the pages worn from frequent use. With excitement , she penned down her thoughts, "I got to know what my name is today. Isabis! A beautiful name with a beautiful meaning. Finally, I gained an identity, a solid identity for this body. I'm happy, very happy. It seems like today is going to be a great day." She muttered to herself.
Closing the diary, she felt a subtle shift within—a sense of empowerment she hadn't known before. The weight of anonymity had been lifted, replaced by the delicate strength of self-recognition.
She rose from the bed, her movements, light. She began her morning routine started by preparing breakfast, tidying the space, ensuring everything was in order before he wakes up.
After she set the table, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the scent of toasted bread with avocado. She went to his room, gently knocking before entering.
"Good morning sir. Breakfast is ready," she announced softly.
He grunted in acknowledgment, not bothering to reply to her greetings. Descending the stairs, he took his seat at the table, diving into the meal without a word.
She stood nearby, observing him. The usual pang of hurt from his indifference was absent today. Instead, she felt a detachment, as if viewing the scene from a distance. As if she was looking at a stranger.
After he finished, he pushed the plate aside and looked up. He told her, "You'll be coming with me tonight to a party." he said, not looking up from his phone. "Don't wear anything flashy. You're assisting Victoria."
Vitoria.
She was not surprised.
Vitoria was his business partner. Or at least that's how he introduced her. But she had long known better. The stolen glances, the feminine perfume on him, the photos carelessly left open on his phone—all signs of a truth too obvious to be denied.
Even apart from that, it was not like she had anything flashy.
He didn't explain further. He didn't need to. The message was clear: she was not invited as a wife, but an assistant for his mistress.
She nodded. Not like she cared anymore.
In the quiet of her room, she dressed carefully. A modest black dress, plain and without ornament. She pinned her hair back and applied light makeup, not for beauty but for armor. Her reflection stared back with unreadable eyes. She whispered the name again: Isabis. Probably to boost her confidence.
The car ride was silent.
He didn't speak to her. His mind was elsewhere—likely imagining Victoria's smile, or the seductive way she moves , or the way the world would praise him for snagging Vitoria, the most influential socialite.
The venue was opulent.
Crystal chandeliers, silk drapery, golden cutlery. Laughter filled the air like perfume—light, expensive and practiced. Isabis walked a step behind him, carrying a slim black case filled with documents and contracts . Vitoria greeted them in a shimmering red gown, glowing with confidence and southern charm .
"Darling," she said, embracing him.
Then, turning to Isabis with a smirk, " And if this isn't the wife ."
She followed Vitoria into the flurry of light and voices. She stayed by Vitoria' s side, passing her papers when needed, adjusting her clutch, holding her drink. She moved like a ghost. She spoke only when spoken to.
Yet the room watched her with curiosity. She could feel the unspoken questions . Who is she? Why is she here? Why is she looking like she doesn't belong here with us?
And she was.
Because somewhere deep inside, she was still in that velvet-draped room with a brush in her hand. Still painting. Still choosing.
At one point in the evening, she slipped outside.
The cool night air met her skin like salvation away from predators . She stood alone on the terrace, city lights glimmering in the distance. From behind, the sound of a door creaking—a sound eerily familiar—sent a shiver through her.
"I see you've found the quiet," came a man's voice.
Not his voice.
Not the stranger from the dream.
But a real man—one of the party guests. His tone was polite, slightly distant, yet calming . She turned slightly and gave him a small nod.
He paused, as if measuring her.
"You don't belong here," he said. Not cruelly. Just fact.
She smiled faintly. "I know."
"I've seen you before," he continued. "At other events. You're always behind her. Or him."
She said nothing.
"Are you the wife?"
A longer silence.
"Yes," she said.
"Doesn't look like it," he replied softly, and then, after a pause, "Forgive me."
And then he walked away, leaving her with the weight of those words. Doesn't look like it.
She returned inside, continuing her role as the little servant girl. When it was finally over, her husband gestured her back to the car with a flick of his fingers.
They didn't speak on the drive home. But in her lap, her fingers moved slowly, miming brushstrokes in the air.
When they arrived, she went straight to her room.
She opened her diary and wrote:
"I can't wait to be free, because then, I can survive . The stranger in my dream said I created my own kingdom. So why, then, do I remain a servant in someone else's palace?"
Her fingers lingered on the page. Then, without understanding why, she turned to a blank one and began sketching.
The outline of a door. Then, the outline of a girl. Her!
And this time, she drew herself walking through it.