Perfect Red

“You appear to have something to say.” Nora’s eyes locked on me with a hard-nosed glare.

I flipped open the book, scanning every passage for something—anything—I could compliment.

‘Oh, where oh where was the happy honey bear? If not there, then maybe there?’

I could feel Emil’s eager gaze boring into me as I scrubbed through the pages. I forced a pleasant expression, turning each page with exaggerated care.

‘Look at the lively little leaves! Do you see? Three tiny honeybees fly free.’

Something inside me wanted to scream like a kaiju trapped in a maximum-security prison. Even at age seven, books like this pissed me off—the blatant overuse of alliteration, the constant choppy pauses from simple sentence structures—everything about the genre ticked every box on my “annoying writing” checklist.

“Well?” Emil finally asked, fishing for my opinion.

I looked up for the first time, realizing my polite mask had cracked somewhere along the way.

“It uses alliteration,” I said, keeping my tone neutral, trying to hide my disdain for that particular device.

Emil tilted his head, both at my critique and at the fact I even knew the term. “That’s right. I’m surprised you knew what that was.”

My intelligence felt slightly insulted. Sure, I knew it wasn’t common for kids my age to prefer advanced reading material, but I hated being underestimated.

“I mean, it’s a common literary device in most children’s books. It comes from the Latin littera, meaning ‘letter of the alphabet.’ Though, some of your phrases lean more toward assonance—that’s when you—”

I stopped mid-sentence when I caught Fleur’s wide-eyed look, silently warning, Stop talking. You’re waking the beast.

Sure enough, Nora’s death stare confirmed it: I’d already run my mouth too far. Not even my first day, and I was halfway to eviction.

Emil noticed the monster in the room as well, as he tried to descalate before anything had happened. He turned back to me with a warm smile. “You know, the honeybee bit came from when Fleur was little and kept trying to chase bees in the garden. Nearly gave her mother a heart attack.

“Asher, it sounds like you are a very smart boy”, Nora said slyly, her once angry expression shifting to the devious grin of a Cheshire cat.

Uh oh.

“Maybe you could help Emil by writing a dissertation on his books. You know that word, right, Asher?”

Oh no.

Emil chimed in, completely negligent to her sudden shift in attitude. “Nora, that is… an amazing idea!”

Fleur just sat there staring at me out of pity like a chimpanzee locked in a zoo.

Nora continued, happily discussing with Emil her plan. “With a well spoken child like Asher, you would get immediate and firsthand feedback from your target audience.”

“Right! Right!”

“Asher, you will write me a dissertation- fifty pages on the literary significance of Emil’s works. Due by the end of the week. Written by hand with proper citations.

My heart stopped. Fifty pages? At my age? Most kids could barely spell “dissertation” without a running start. This was an obvious attempt at refined cruelty, but Emil was so obviously dense to the inner machinations of his lover’s twisted mind.

“Without further comment, dinner is now dismissed. I would recommend that you start right away, Asher, so you can meet the deadline. The clock is ticking”, Nora said with an unscrupulous smile. She gave me a little wave as I stood up and pushed my chair in to head upstairs.

Fleur followed closely behind me as we walked up the stairs, turning the corner to the big hallway Emil had toured me around earlier. If I remembered correctly, my room was the third to the left. Right before we made it past the second door, Fleur branched off to a room at the right, its door already slightly open. I could barely make out what appeared to be sheets of paper strewn all across the ground and a poster of some female pop idol taped to the wall.

With how restrictive and refined Aunt Nora appeared, I was left wondering what she thought about Fleur’s room, both the decor and mess. I wouldn’t take her to be the kind of mother to put up with either of those things. Although, I thought, maybe she treats her daughter differently from other people. Nora seemed more reserved when the conversation was about her daughter.

Ccccreak.

The door to Fleur’s room was shut and now I was left alone in the hallway.

Smack.

I pressed both my hands against my face out of shame. I should know better than to look inside a girl’s room.

After a few more steps, I finally arrived at my room.

As I opened the door, I noticed the journal was still laying on the bed along with the picture of my father and his ‘friend’. I didn’t bother putting it away considering I had a dissertation to start writing. In the corner of my room, there sat a simple desk with a banker lamp. I flicked it on and pulled up a chair, starting to rummage through some of the cabinets to find some fresh paper. Instead, I found that they were filled with all sorts of personal finance information. Grant applications, project proposals, progress reports, budget sheets and a few other types of documentation I wasn’t familiar with.

“What is this?” I started reading it aloud.

‘I, Emilie Bellerose, of sound mind and body, hereby declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking all prior wills and codicils. To my youngest daughter, Elise Bellerose, I bequeath the entirety of the Bellerose Estate, including all associated properties, assets, and lands. This inheritance comes with the hope that she will protect the estate’s legacy and preserve it as a home of tradition and family unity. To my eldest daughter, Nora Bellerose, I leave the family grand piano, a cherished piece that has filled the halls of the Bellerose Estate with music for generations. May it serve as a reminder of the harmony and beauty that lies within our family’s shared talent.’

As I read, reality began to distort around me. The room I was in shrouded in a purplish haze as my head began to throb. When I pressed my hand against my temple I noticed it was bigger than that of a child's. I was back, if even for a moment… almost like I had just relived a moment of my past.

“What was that vision? Am I still trapped? What is this strange place?” I had so many questions.

There had to be a reason for these visions of the past. Something about this strange dreamscape had the property to relive past moments. But why am I here? Was that girl I met earlier in the park in control of this place?

No, she had mentioned another person… Another person like myself who, unlike my unwilling self, purposefully entered this realm for a reason. Besides, if I were to meet whoever created this dreamscape, I’d find it hard to believe that I’d survive the encounter. My head was already splitting from all of my questions and I felt like if I received any more stimuli, I would explode.

I sat at the desk for a moment longer, trying to process everything when–

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I was back… my younger self sitting at the desk after I had finally found some empty sheets of paper in the bottom most cabinet.

“Come in”, I said as I started to swiftly write my opening thesis.

Fleur entered, still dressed in her day clothes. I was focused on my paper, but I saw out of the corner of my eye as she walked over to look at the things on my bed.

Her voice was soft spoken and soothing to the ears. “I’m sorry about my mother.”

“It’s not your fault”, I said, worried that she was taking too much responsibility for someone else’s actions.

It went silent for a moment, so I turned around to see her hand slightly caressing the worn journal laid upon the bed.

“His books aren’t very good, are they?” Fleur asked; a light giggle followed.

“I mean, they’re not terrible… I just think I’ve outgrown them.”

“I don’t even read them anymore,” she said, setting the journal back down. “He used to give me one every year.”

“EVERY YEAR?!” I couldn’t contain my surprise.

Fleur giggled again. “Yes. Every year. I liked them when I was really little. It wasn’t until I started playing piano that I…” She trailed off, eyes drifting upward.

I followed her gaze.

There—hanging above my bedframe—was a photo I’d never seen before. My parents stood smiling beside an older woman, Grandmother Emilie, I guessed.

But that didn’t make sense.
I’d been in this room before. That frame wasn’t here the first time. I would have noticed.

The air between us changed. A low hum filled my ears—like the room itself was holding its breath. The desk, the bed, even Fleur’s face seemed to ripple, colors bleeding outward into something else.

And then—

I was there.

Not at my desk, not in the Bellerose house, but on the edge of a dimly lit recital hall. The smell of varnished wood and perfume filled the air. Fleur was on stage, hands poised above the keys.

The final movement was the last hurdle to overcome. Up to this point, she had played every note with grace and precision. Fleur had entered the fabled flow state, the mental clarity so many musicians describe as the pinnacle of their craft. The lights around her felt hazy and distant, the crowd melted into a marbled blur, and the weight of each key seemed to vanish beneath her fingers.

For just a moment, Fleur felt happy.
She felt free.

WHACK!
The image of a ruler striking her hand snapped into her mind, and the sting that followed was all too real.

"You stupid broad."

The flow shattered. Fleur’s intrusive thoughts crept in like weeds, choking the rhythm. The segue between phrases blurred as her mind drowned in memories of her grandmother—both kind and cruel.

"Very good! You played that passage perfectly!"
The warmth of a rare, tight embrace.

"A donkey could sing it better."

WHACK!
WHACK! WHACK!

"You're just like your mother. Talentless. Hopeless. "

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

"I’d understand messing this up if you started playing as an infant. Why are you so utterly incompetent?"

Fleur’s hand trembled, jittering like the rotor of an overworked engine. A fitting metaphor—she was a vehicle. A vessel for an elderly woman’s unfulfilled legacy. But she could never bring herself to say that about her beloved grandmother.

Grandmother Emilie had done so much for her, yet always thought so little. Fleur lived for the fleeting moments of approval, caught in the vice grip of perfection.

Her mother, Nora, had seen through the abuse and tried to shield her from the ever-gnawing beast of flawlessness. But every effort only seemed to push Fleur further away—further into spite, into resentment.

Her daughter hated her.
Yet loved the woman who hated her.

So Nora lived in bitterness, watching as her mother stole her daughter away—emotionally, then completely. She, too, grew jealous and hollow.

And so lived the Bellerose family: a lineage of perfectionists, bound in resentment and wealth-soaked delusion.

Until one day, Grandmother Emilie died in a house fire.

That was when Fleur began to feel. She sifted through the charred memories: the bruises, the belittling, the praise used as bait, the insults that bled like arrows to the heart. The realization was suffocating. She couldn’t breathe—not from ash, but from grief. From the depression that pressed on her chest like a lead weight.

But she didn’t have time to mourn.
Not properly.

The recital—the most important of her life—was in three days. So she locked away her emotions and returned to the piano the same day her grandmother died.

“It’s what she would’ve wanted.”
“I’d be stupid to skip the recital.”
“I can’t disappoint Grandmother Emilie.”

And now, here she was.
The final movement of Rosary Prayer.

Fleur froze.

The audience reformed before her eyes, no longer bathed in haze but in a heavy, suffocating smog. Their features sharpened. Their stares burned.

Five seconds.
No sound. No movement.

Ten.
Stillness.

Twenty.
Nothing but silence.

Thirty.
Not a single key.

A minute.
A full minute passed in absolute quiet. The recital hall was still, save for the air thick with tension.

The audience’s stares pierced her like the gaze of an eldritch god—unknowable, immense. Impossible to read. The judges scribbled silently at the front, expressionless behind their clipboards.

Her time had been taken.
Just like her joy.
Both stolen—by her dead grandmother.

—

“Ugh!” I held my head for a moment, exhausted from the heightened immersion.

My splitting headache continued as Fleur ran to my side, holding my shoulder to keep me from falling out of my chair.

“Are you okay?!” I looked up to see her worried face… the face of a girl who didn’t know what to think.

Did I just see her past? Too vivid. Maybe her memories. Was this ability mine, buried in my child-self, or some anomaly of this strange world?

Interestingly, I found myself unable to deviate from my actions. Only here, only in these moments, did I become an active participant in my flashbacks. That meant something was wrong—different.

Fleur kept watching me with concern.

The paper girl mentioned someone else entered this otherworld to retrieve something. Maybe I was here for the same reason. Maybe the key lay in Fleur’s story.

“Your grandmother,” I started, hesitant. “She died in a housefire, right?”

Fleur stiffened at my question.
“Y-yes,” she stuttered.

Guilt burned at my bluntness, but I had to know. I turned back to the cabinet I’d inspected earlier, pulling open its drawers.

“Was your mother or grandmother a painter of any kind?”
“N-no.”
“Any connection to a laboratory?”

She paused, eyes flicking toward the photo frame above us—the one with my father and Grandmother Emilie.

I froze, then forced myself to keep searching. My fingers brushed across a folder. The label read:

Emergency services responded to a full-structure fire at the Bellerose Estate at approximately 0214 hours. Upon arrival at 0335, the residence was fully engulfed. Collapse of the roof and interior floors occurred prior to suppression. The fire was declared under control at 0532 hours.

Post-fire analysis indicates multiple ignition points within the ground-floor parlor and adjoining study. Fire dynamics suggest rapid progression consistent with the presence of volatile accelerants. Containers consistent with household solvents (paint thinner, acetone) were documented on-site, though fire conditions prevented chemical confirmation.

Structural collapse created a sealed environment, sustaining high-temperature combustion well beyond the duration of visible flames. Charring and vitrification of brick in the foundation indicate localized temperatures exceeding 2000 °F.

Recovery yielded only small calcined fragments intermixed with plaster, insulation, and other fire debris. No intact dental structures or diagnostic skeletal elements were located. All material tested was insufficient for positive human identification.

As such, the presence of human remains at the time of the fire cannot be confirmed or excluded.

Given the estate’s fuel load, chemical storage, and collapse conditions, the outcome is atypical but scientifically consistent with extreme post-flashover fire behavior.

Case Status: Closed – Origin classified as Accidental, with contributing accelerants present. Human presence is inconclusive.

“...” Fleur and I were taken aback.

Why would an elderly woman need so much acetone? You’d think she’d spend her time knitting or calling her daughter to come fix the toaster only for it to not be plugged in.

Fleur’s complexion mirrored my own unease.

“The fire was reported at 2:14 AM…” I said slowly. “Only hours after my house burned down.”

Her head snapped toward me. “That timing seems too coincidental.”

“Exactly. Our homes are within an hour’s walk. By car? Less.” I chewed the back of my pen.

She pointed at the delayed response time. “They might have been tied up with your fire first. The report itself could’ve been delayed too.”

She was right. Alone, the Bellerose report proved nothing. But paired with the window of time between both fires, the possibility of foul play sharpened. Whoever planned this had a flawless setup. All we lacked was identity and motive.

I glanced up at Fleur. My pen slipped from my mouth, clattering on the table. On the wall behind her hung the photo of my parents and Grandmother Emilie. My throat tightened.

“My father was a man of science… moreso a psychiatrist than a practicing lab technician but he died in the fire, he couldn’t have been the one to cause the Bellerose incident…”

So where else would we look? I brushed my hands through my hair, lost and conflicted.

In the meantime, Fleur crossed to the bed where my journal lay.

I forgot how to breathe.

She lifted the journal, turning it so I could see.

Her finger pressed against the photograph inside—my father, standing with his associate.