Author Games: Red Room

Task Seven: Vanity Morey

Vanity Morey is escaping.

She's been lied to – she knows that now, knows it too late, but at least she knows. Better late than never, better living than dead. Her attempts at redeeming herself have pushed her further into perdition, and she has no one to blame but herself. Once again, Vanity has sought answers in everyone but herself. Who should I be? she asks every woman in sight. She does as she's told, or she does the opposite, but at the end of the day each direction her life has taken has been directed by someone else. That ends today. She's leaving the caves, and she plans to abandon herself inside them. Vanity, Narcissa – both of them will die, and she will become someone else altogether. But who?

Priscilla, maybe? Part of her longs the idea. She can see herself, wearing frilly lace dresses and dancing a little with every step she takes. Vanity's hair will grow back blonde, and a good surgeon could surely fix her scars – her mother's money is hers now, Vanity supposes. Gloria Morey leagued everything she owned to her daughter, not her husband. Even after Vanity betrayed her, Gloria held faith. She flinches. It's a grim reminder of the caked layer of blood on her hands. It shouldn't matter. Blood covers Vanity's arms, her legs, her face – but this is different. The blood on her hands isn't her own, and that changes everything.

No, not Priscilla. She could never heal that much, never feign that simple happiness. However much Vanity heals, she knows some scars will stay. Her heart will remain as mangled as her face, tattered and bloodied and anguished. Time will gloss over her wounds, but it won't heal them. All it'll take is one prod, and Vanity Morey will fall to pieces yet again. Though she may want to, she can't be Priscilla.

Aubrey, then. She can go back to school, change her name, and live her life as a scholar. Though she hasn't had much time to think about it in the throes of torment, Vanity likes her studies. She likes to think about the way in which fear can inspire the worst behaviours – and she certainly has a brand-new insight to offer. She could shape her field, be known as a quirky genius. Or she could be aloof and mysterious, manic and alluring precisely because of her darkness. She could call herself Hailey. Vanity could even disappear, rebaptize herself as Jane, live a perfectly ordinary life.

She could do anything and everything. Vanity Morey has a life waiting for her; all she needs is to reach out and grab it. All she needs to do isrun.

Whatever called the Hunters away, it must be major. Vanity hasn't seem a single Hunter around the cavern – not Prometheus, not Medea, notCassandra. As far as she can tell, there isn't a single soul in the Hunters' hideout. The absence of a guard when she reached the torture room has reinforced her assumption. She's armed now, dangerous, and that makes all the difference. Vanity clutches onto the dagger she's seized as though it's the hand of God himself – not that he exists. She's sure of that, now. No deity would allow the horrors she's endured to happen, especially not when those who committed them claimed to do so in Their name. If God existed, He is dead, and man is alone. It's their world, to do with as they please, and Vanity intends to do just that.

If there's anyone else in the cavern, she doesn't care. If they're broken, if they need rescuing, they can take care of themselves. Nobody here has raised a finger for Vanity; why should she repay a favour never granted? Fuck the broken. Fuck the hurt. She is both of those things, maybe even beyond repair, and she's taking care of herself. Anyone left in the Hunters' grasp can do the same, or they can perish. Vanity limps on, practically throwing herself as she tries to find the exist she used when they brought her to her mother. Was that only yesterday? Her hands feel as though they've been soiled for much longer than a day. It's funny; blood weighs very little, but the red that cakes her hands feels heavier than the universe itself. She could buckle under its pressure.