His sinful Obsession

Preciosa

Bright light poured into her eyes like needles. Frida winced and blinked several times, trying to adjust her vision. The room resembled hers, but the view through the windows was entirely different—higher, wider, more distant. She wasn't in the same place. She was somewhere far above, far away from whatever horror had gripped her last night.

A soft click broke her daze—the door creaked open, and Mrs. Andersen stepped in, holding a tray. Her presence was calm, almost too calm.
"Hvordan har du det, barnet mitt?"("How are you, my child?")

Frida's lips trembled.
"Hvor... hvor er jeg? Hva skjedde?" (Where... where am I? What happened?)

"Du er i tredje etasje. Du besvimte i går kveld, og Herr Salvatore bar deg hit. Jeg er glad han ikke anså deg som en byrde."("You're on the third floor. You fainted last night, and Mr. Salvatore brought you here. I'm glad he didn't see you as a burden.")

"Jeg... jeg husker ikke... jeg bare—" (I... I don't remember... I just—)

"Det går bra. Jeg bør kanskje ikke si så mye, men du vet hvordan mesteren vår er. Det er forbudt å snakke om visse ting."("It's alright. I probably shouldn't say much, but you know how our master is. It's forbidden to speak of certain things.")

Her tone was gentle, but something beneath her words hinted: Do not ask more than you are allowed to know.

She placed the tray down on the bedside table.
"Jeg brakte deg middag i går, men du var bevisstløs. Nå som du er våken, spis litt frokost. Du trenger styrken."("I brought you dinner last night, but you were unconscious. Now that you're awake, have some breakfast. You'll need your strength.")

"Fru Andersen... vet du hva som skjedde på rommet mitt i går kveld?" (Mrs. Andersen... do you know what happened in my room last night?)

The older woman paused, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Hva som skjedde? Jeg gikk inn der, og det var ingenting. Hvorfor besvimte du i det hele tatt? Det hadde jeg tenkt å spørre deg om etter frokosten."("What happened? I went into your room, and there was nothing. Why you fainted in the first place—I was going to ask you after breakfast.")

"Forresten, en lege har kommet. Jeg henter henne nå."("By the way, a doctor is here. I'll bring her up now.")

"Hm." Frida's reply was barely audible. Her face was blank, but inside her mind spiraled.

Was it a hallucination?
No.
She saw it. Gabriel's eyes, wide open. The butterflies... so many of them, flying out of his opened stomach. No, it wasn't a mistake. It couldn't have been.
He was there—Rafael. He spoke to her, held her. She wasn't imagining it.

But the quiet warning from Mrs. Andersen rang louder in her ears than the scream from last night.
Could she dare confront him?

The doctor worked in silence, removing the cannula and the now-empty saline bag from her arm.
"You're under a lot of stress. You need rest, and proper meals," the woman said, not unkindly. "You'll recover. Just give it time."

Frida gave a faint smile. Her body may have rested, but her soul felt like it had been dragged through hell. When Mrs. Andersen returned with a change of clothes and asked her something, Frida only nodded, asking if she could freshen up.

.

.

The water from the shower fell like rain onto her skin, but it didn't cleanse her. Under the downpour, she held her arms tightly around herself. Her memory was in fragments, but the feelings remained—etched deep inside her.
Cold dread.
Paralyzing horror.
The sickening beauty of what she saw.
How could something so grotesque seem so orchestrated?

Alas, if only she knew—

only Rafael could dress the grotesque in such haunting grace.