Marigold opened her eyes. The gaping maw that had consumed her vision moments ago was gone, replaced by blinding stage lights burning hot above her head. Their glow seared down unnaturally, hovering in an abyss of darkness where a ceiling should have been. She wasn’t in the house anymore. The walls around her stretched endlessly, but somehow, the space still felt tight and suffocating. A faint beep... beep... beep... echoed through the vast emptiness, and her stomach twisted. It was a heart monitor. She turned. There, in the centre of a pristine hospital bed, lay her mother. Marigold’s breath hitched. The sheets were tucked too neatly, the medical equipment gleamed under the artificial lights, too clean. But none of that mattered—because in the middle of her mother’s forehead, just above her brows, was a hole. A neat, precise wound, its edges dark with dried blood, its depth unknowable. The monitor beside her pulsed in a steady rhythm, oblivious to the impossibility of it all.


    Marigold stepped forward, her throat tightening. “Mom?”


    Her mother stirred, then turned her head toward her. The motion was slow, almost mechanical. Her face was just as Marigold remembered—gaunt, worn, but familiar. Her lips curled into something that might have been a smile if not for the vacancy behind her eyes.


    “You’re late,” she said dryly. “Though I guess that’s nothing new, huh?”


    Laughter erupted from somewhere behind Marigold. It was loud, jarring. The sound wasn’t organic—it was too crisp, too produced. Marigold spun around. Rows of faceless figures sat in the shadows of an invisible studio audience. They sat unnaturally still, except for their shoulders, which bobbed in perfect, synchronized laughter. When the sound cut off, it did so all at once, like a switch had been flipped. Marigold’s skin crawled. She turned back to her mother, whose lips were now moving—but not speaking. Just... mouthing something. It took Marigold a second to understand.


    Her mother was cueing her. A fresh wave of laughter burst from the unseen audience, as if they, too, were waiting. Marigold shook her head. “What the hell is this?”


    Her mother’s expression barely shifted, but her eyes gleamed with something cold. “A conversation, dear,” she replied, voice laced with mockery. “Or is talking another thing you’ve abandoned?”


    Another eruption of laughter. Marigold winced. It was too loud, pressing against her skull like a vice. Her hands curled into fists.


    “I don’t understand—”


    “Oh, you don’t understand?” Her mother’s voice sharpened. “That’s rich.”


    The laughter swelled, deafening, layered with something distorted—some voices too deep, others shrill and manic. Marigold’s knees buckled. Her mother sat up now, moving stiffly, unnaturally, the heart monitor still beeping in a steady rhythm.


    “You know, I spent years protecting you,” she continued, her voice low and venomous. “Praying over you, fighting for you, shielding you from things you didn’t even know existed.”


    The studio dimmed. Shadows grew long, stretching unnaturally toward Marigold, curling at the edges of her vision like grasping fingers. She tried to step back, but her feet wouldn’t move.


    “I warned you about the world, about what lurked just beneath the surface. And yet, the second I was gone—poof!” Her mother made an exaggerated motion with her hands, her grin widening. “You ran. You left. You forgot me.”


    Marigold felt her breath falter. “That’s not true.”


    Her mother leaned in, the hole in her head splitting slightly, something dark and wet glistening beneath. “Isn’t it?”


    Marigold opened her mouth, but before she could speak, her mother’s face twisted into something hateful.


    “You wanted me dead, didn’t you?” she spat. “You wanted freedom from me. From my rules. My warnings. My love.”


    The laughter roared, shrieking, distorting into something monstrous. Marigold squeezed her eyes shut, covering her ears, but it did nothing to drown out the sound, nothing to silence the suffocating weight of it.


    Her mother’s voice cut through it all, sharp and venomous.


    “You left me alone. And I died. Alone!”


    Marigold gasped. The laughter stopped. The silence hit harder than the noise.


    She opened her eyes. Her mother sat still, her expression blank, empty, but the damage had already been done.


    Marigold trembled, her hands curling against her chest. “Mom, please—”


    A cue card flipped in the darkness.


    It read: APOLOGIZE.


    The audience waited.


    A hush settled over the studio. Marigold stared at the cue card, the letters shifting, swimming, refusing to form words she could understand. The audience waited, their breath held in quiet anticipation. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, a voice boomed from the darkness beyond the stage.


    “CUT!”


    The word cracked through the air like a whip. Marigold flinched, her grip on her cardigan’s sleeve tightening as she turned toward the sound. From the shadows, a figure stepped forward, his presence thick and cloying, filling the space like a suffocating fog. The director. He moved with an unhurried confidence, adjusting the buttons on his blazer, smoothing a hand through his limp, curly afro. He gave her a warm, indulgent smile—one that never reached his eyes.


    "Sweetheart," he drawled, his voice syrupy with false affection. "That was good. Really, really good. But it’s missing something. I feel like you’re holding back on me."


    Marigold swallowed hard, her tongue leaden in her mouth. From nowhere, two faceless goons held her in place, wrapping their grips around her arms. The walls of the studio pressed in closer. The director tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to consider. Then his expression lit up as if struck by divine inspiration.


    “I know what this scene needs,” he said, snapping his fingers. “More romance.”


    Before she could react, he pulled a revolver from his jacket and shot her mother in the head.


    Marigold flinched as the sound cracked through the air, the force sending her mother’s body jerking violently against the hospital bed. Blood sprayed across the pristine white sheets, soaking into the fabric like ink. The audience howled with laughter. The director grinned, holstering the gun as casually as if he had just swatted a fly. "There we go," he said, satisfied. "Much better. But I still think we can do more, don’t you?"


    Marigold’s breath came in ragged gasps. Her mother—her mother—was slumped sideways, lifeless, the back of her skull reduced to pulp. But something was wrong. Her body moved, shifting slightly as if some unseen hands were working the mechanics beneath her skin. A moment later, the hospital bed rolled itself offstage, disappearing into the darkness, as though she had never been there at all.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Marigold trembled. "What is this?" she whispered.


    The director smiled and turned to the shadows behind him.


    “Bring her in.”


    A figure stepped onto the stage. Marigold froze.


    It was her. Younger. Barefoot, except for a pair of knee-high socks, her body adorned with accessories meant to humiliate rather than embellish—a cat-ear headband, a cheap bell collar jingling around her throat. She had the same soft, hopeful features Marigold once carried, untouched by the years that would harden her. The girl smiled up at them, head tilted in a way that was too innocent, too obedient. The director whistled, and the younger Marigold immediately dropped to all fours. She crawled toward him, the bell at her throat chiming softly with each movement.


    Marigold recoiled. “No—stop this. Leave her alone!”


    The audience erupted into laughter.


    The director, watching her reaction, sighed dramatically. “Still not quite right,” he mused. He snapped his fingers again. Another Marigold entered. Younger still. The collar had been replaced with a full leather harness. A leash trailed from her throat to the director’s hand, which he gave an idle tug, making the girl stumble forward with a soft whimper. She pouted, looking up at him through wide, glassy eyes. The audience went wild.


    Marigold’s pulse pounded in her ears. “Please,” she begged, voice barely above a whisper. “Make it stop.”


    The director turned to her, his lips quirking in amusement. “You’re still not happy,” he said, mock disappointment dripping from his voice. "Wow. Tough crowd."


    Then, he waved his hand once more. The final Marigold stepped forward. Not some twisted caricature. It was her. Exactly as she had been back then, in those bright, naive years before she had learned what real power looked like. This version of her stood at the centre of the stage, trembling, eyes darting between the director and the faceless crowd. She knew what was coming. Marigold couldn’t breathe. The director circled her like a vulture, his movements slow, deliberate. He toyed with the ends of her hair, inhaling the scent of it. Then, his fingers trailed lower—down her throat, over her collarbones, pausing just below her chin.


    “This one’s different, isn’t she?” he murmured, looking at Marigold now, not her past self. "She’s got bite."


    The audience roared in approval. Marigold’s past self flinched away from his touch. The laughter grew. A sinking horror bloomed in Marigold’s gut. They liked it when she fought.


    The director’s smile widened. “Let’s see just how much fight she has.”


    He snapped his fingers. More faceless men grabbed her past self, shoving her to her knees in front of him. She struggled, her teeth bared, her breath coming in quick, desperate gasps.


    Marigold screamed for them to stop, but her voice was drowned beneath the laughter, the applause, the cheering. The director extended his boot, pressing it against her past self’s chin, forcing her head back. “Go on,” he cooed. “You know your cue.”


    The past Marigold shook.


    The director’s voice darkened. “Beg.”


    Tears slipped down her younger self’s face, but still, she opened her mouth, lips trembling around the words. "Please," she whispered. "Please let me go."


    The crowd erupted with applause. Marigold turned away, unable to watch, but unseen hands forced her head forward, forced her to bear witness.


    The director’s foot lifted, hovering in front of her past self’s lips. She hesitated, body rigid, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Another snap of his fingers. The men shoved her downward, and her lips pressed against the polished leather. The laughter peaked. Marigold’s stomach lurched. The world tilted, warped, her vision swimming with static. The director turned to her at last, beaming. His skin was damp with sweat, his pupils blown wide with pleasure. He crouched beside her, so close she could smell him. He leaned in, whispering against the shell of her ear.


    "Your mother tried to warn you about the evils of this world… Had you listened to her, you wouldn’t even be here right now."


    Marigold knelt in silence, her throat raw, her breath shuddering in uneven gasps. The laughter had died down. The lights had dimmed. The spotlight remained fixed on her, but everything else—the set, the faceless audience, the chains of reality itself—felt distant, insubstantial. Like a dream rotting at the edges. The director stood before her, watching. Not gloating, not revelling—just watching. Then, he sighed. A deep, weary sound, as if he had just taken a long drag from a cigarette.


    “Well,” he muttered, adjusting his cuffs. “That was a bit much, wasn’t it?”


    Marigold swallowed hard, unable to lift her gaze. The humiliation still clung to her like a second skin. Her own breath felt foreign in her lungs. The director crouched before her, resting his elbows on his knees, looking at her with something almost resembling concern. His voice softened. “I mean it, Mari. That was... ugly. I feel bad.”


    She flinched at the sound of her name on his lips.


    “I’m not trying to be a monster, you know,” he continued. “But let’s be honest. You take some rich prick, put him in a position of power, give him access to anyone he wants? Well.” He gestured vaguely as if the conclusion were obvious. “You get me. A monster.”


    Marigold forced herself to meet his eyes. And for the first time, he didn’t look like a towering force of cruelty. He looked small. Tired. There was something hollow in his expression, something raw beneath all the arrogance and the filth.


    “I think, somewhere in my head, I convinced myself that if I took what I wanted, I’d be satisfied,” he murmured. “But it wasn’t about that, was it?” His lips curled into something resembling a smile, but it was brittle, humourless. “I liked you, Marigold. I really did. But you—” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You never would’ve wanted me. And deep down, I knew that.”


    Her skin crawled.


    “So I did what any monster would do.” He tilted his head slightly. “I hurt you.”


    Marigold gritted her teeth, her fingers curling into trembling fists.


    He exhaled again, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “God, when you say it out loud, it sounds so... pathetic, doesn’t it? ‘I couldn’t have you, so I broke you instead.’” He gave a bitter laugh. “How twisted is that?”


    He shook his head, standing again. “I’m sorry, Marigold.”


    The words hit her like a slap. The laughter was gone. The audience was silent. The air had shifted. For a second—for one agonizing second—she almost believed him. Then, he clapped his hands together, grinning like a magician at the end of a trick.


    “And that’s why I’ve let them go,” he said, gesturing toward the stage, now empty of the other Marigolds. “Because I am sorry. And, you know, making amends and all that.”


    Marigold stared at the empty space where her reflections had once been. A strange relief curled at the edges of her ribs, an exhale she hadn’t even realized she was holding.


    Until—


    He tilted his head. “That doesn’t mean I’m not a monster.”


    A slow clap. And just like that—


    She wasn’t on the stage anymore. She was back in her office. Her hands trembled over a half-packed box of personal belongings. Reality settled in wrong—like a jacket a size too tight, familiar but smothering. The artificial hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The L.A. skyline stretched beyond the window. The smell of stale coffee lingered in the air. And she remembered. She remembered exactly what came next. The door behind her creaked open. And she knew who was standing there.


    "HI."


    Marigold turned.


    "My name''s Amber, I''m the new PA."


    The girl stood in the doorway, bright-eyed and eager, clutching a notepad to her chest like it was armour. She was younger than Marigold had been when she first took the job, maybe twenty if that. Soft-faced. Hopeful. Her blouse was crisp, her slacks neatly pressed, her hair pinned back in an effort to appear professional.


    Marigold stared at her.


    Amber shifted on her feet. "I, um—I know I’m kind of early, but I wanted to get a head start. The last girl—uh, you—left in a bit of a hurry, so I figured I should get settled in quickly." She laughed, a nervous little thing. "They said I’d be working really closely with Mr. Calloway."


    Her voice stretched over the name like she was trying it on for size. The room tilted. The air tasted stale, thick with old coffee and printer toner. The walls were too close, too yellowed, the fluorescent lighting buzzing like flies in a carcass.


    Marigold’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag.


    Amber frowned slightly. "Are you okay?"


    Marigold blinked. She was still here. At this moment. In this body. The set was gone, the audience was gone, the collar, the leash, the director’s breath on her skin—it was all gone.


    Amber was still looking at her expectedly.


    Her throat was dry.


    She could say something.


    She could warn her.


    She could say, Don''t take the job.


    She could say, Leave now, while you still can.


    She could say, He will ruin you.


    She parted her lips.


    Amber smiled, expectant.


    Marigold swallowed.


    "Good luck," she said. Smiling.


    She walked past her, out of the office, down the hall, and out into the daylight, leaving Amber behind. She didn’t look back.


    “She’ll be fine,” she told herself.