Medication

The cab only took Pat as far as the fence. It had become bad luck in the small town of Kinsale, Ireland to venture into the long driveway of the Hermin Manor.
Pat paid the cabbie, who quickly drove off towards the harbor. Walking atop the cracked pavement, she saw the Manor for the first time in person. The home was massive, spanning over an acre. The stonework walls and wire fence were long run over by vines. The remnants of a vast garden created a mass of dried, dead flowers. As Pat’s eyes wandered upwards from the decaying flora, she focused on a window on the third floor. Around the window, black marks could be seen, the remaining marks of a old fire that had destroyed half the house. Inside the window were torn, purple curtains. Beside these curtains, stood a man. His sudden appearance jolted Pat, causing her to stumble on the cold, wet pavement. When she regained her footing, the man had disappeared.
Before knocking on the door, Pat stepped back to breathe. It's only for one night, she thought to herself, it's your only option. The events leading up to Pat’s acceptance of this venture only worsened her condition. Her doctor’s inference that she had schizophrenia came to no surprise to her, but his recommendation did. A new method for curing the dark disease was what brought her to Ireland. And now she stood before her only chance at a normal life. She grabbed hold of the metal handle, and knocked three times upon the arching wooden doors.
The man that answered was a burden to look at. His old, leathery skin seemed to crack and stretch before her eyes. Moving past the horrible creature, Pat gazed into her temporary home. It will be an easy adjustment, the doctor had assured her, you will feel right at home. But the drab, dusty rooms that fell before her seemed less than comforting. As she allowed her eyes to wonder, she discovered a grand mirror. Within the mirror, she found herself, a skinny girl, barely in her twenties clinging to a small bag that had only the belongings that the master of the manor would allow. My black hair is far too dark and short, she speculated in the mirror, why couldn't I have beautiful, long, blond hair. Displeased with her reflection, she searched the mirror for something else. She saw the piano next, sitting alone in the room behind her. A beautiful, hand crafted wooden instrument with dazzling ivory keys. When she turned from the mirror to look at it more directly, she was startled to find something that she hadn't seen in the mirror. Behind the stunning piano was an even more stunning man.
The man wore a black suit with a black shirt to match, which contrasted to his smooth, pale skin. The only color on his long, chiseled body was his cherry blond hair. His jaw line cut out of his neck like a glacier in an arctic ocean and his eyes as blue as the salty water. The melody that came from the piano was nothing like any Irish music she had heard during her brief time in Ireland. It was a waltz. One two three. One two three.
The music pulled Pat in until she was standing above the man's shoulder. Her hips seemed to sway to the pulsing rhythm. His fingers seemed to float over an ocean of black and white keys, moving back and forth like the tide.
It was not until the completion of the waltz did the man acknowledge Pat’s presence. “Good day,” his deep voice cut through the air and echoed through the manor, “Pattrisha, is it?”
“Good day,” Pat replied, voice slightly quivering, “I go by Pat. What may I call you?” She asked, shaking his large, firm hands.
“I am Kingsley, the Master of this Mannor.” His loud voice seemed to command her attention, his breath smelling of mint and liqueur only brought Pat closer. “You may call me Master.”
Though her hands receded back to her pockets, Pat could still feel the thick padding of the embrace that held them moments ago. His thick calluses rubbed against her soft palms. His sweat connecting with her own.
Kingsley led Pat to her dorm, a small room with grey walls and no windows. Against the wall was a small bed and dresser. Motioning to the dresser, Kingsley assured her that all the cloths she would be wearing had already been placed in there. “Get dressed and meet me in the dining room for dinner in twenty minutes,” he commanded.
Pat set her bag on the bed and began to search the dresser. Among the piles of undershirts and panties, she found a small, black dress. As she pulled the dress around her waist and slid her arms though the long sleeves, she began to think about her new master. He will be good to me. She thought as she zipped up her dress, sliding her long arms around her back and then down her waist. The doctor said that this man could help me. But he doesn't know me. No one knows me. No one can help. Pat took slow strides down the marble stairs. Fuck! Fuck him! They will never understand me. I don't need them.
Arriving at the table, Kingsley pulled out a seat for her across from where he would be sitting. The many courses of meals were presented to them by the monstrous-looking servant on silver trays. Mountains of food arrived for the two to indulge on, however, neither seemed to be eating.
“Why will you not eat?” Asked the Master.
“I'm not hungry.” Pat replied coldly.
“Perhaps you would prefer a different meal.” responded the Master, “After all, that is why you are here, is it not?”
Pat had dreaded this confrontation before the meal, but now that she had seen the man that was supposed to deliver her medicine, she was almost excited. If I were to give in to them, to humor them. This wouldn't be as bad. He would have to be the one. Fuck him. Even if he doesn't have what I need. The cure that the doctor had suggested was definitely not orthodox, but after the Hell that the medication brought Pat, this was her last option.
Pat motioned with her hand to her room, but the Master sternly shook his head. “The only way you are going to be medicated is how I like it!” he demanded. As he shouted, Pat became aware of his muscular arms. His tight biceps seemed to be ripping at the hems of his suit.
As he walked by her, their shoulders connected, his muscle collided with her soft skin. The sound of footsteps echoed through the house as he made his way to the piano. “Come sit.” This command was softer than the other, but still felt harsh and cold as Pat sat at the piano stool.