“…I still love you the same as before, so why do you seem unhappy?” Leland chuckled.
“Really? I didn’t feel that.”
“In the future, you’ll feel it gradually. We have plenty of time, no rush now. But you taught me how to love you before, and now it’s my turn. Winifred, I want you to love me just like how I love you.”
Love is a fleeting indulgence, while true love is a lasting commitment. Every person experiences emotions and desires, yearning to be loved. Leland, despite his appearance, had never truly experienced love and didn’t understand the feeling of being loved.
In the past, Winifred had taught him how to love someone, and now he was asking Winifred to teach him what it means to be loved.
He held Winifred’s left hand, caressing the watch on her wrist, and the scar beneath it.
Winifred had always cared about Gregory’s death, but she never showed it on her face. She believed that time would make her forget, and she wouldn’t care anymore.
Now, back in Peachshire Town with Leland, everything felt familiar, yet there was one person missing who had been her longest and closest companion.
Winifred suddenly wanted to ask how Gregory had died. She opened her mouth, but a sense of inexplicable panic seized her throat, and she couldn’t bring herself to ask.
…
In her room, Winifred found a framed painting, different from the exquisite paintings in the hallway, with crude framing.
It wasn’t exactly a painting, just a piece of A5 paper with a few words written in red pigment.
– Happy Birthday, Leland
Winifred remembered, it was the painting she had left before her birthday last year.
It was also the last painting she had done. Leland had asked if he could have it, but she had refused at the time.
Later, when he was about to leave and she remembered it was his birthday, she decided to give him the painting.
She recalled that when she painted it, there was a red mole near Leland’s left eye. But when she gave him the painting, the mole had disappeared, replaced by a small scar. She had erased the mole on the painting, written a line on the back, and casually tossed it in a drawer.
It was the first time she had seen someone reveal the back of a painting, destroying the artwork entirely.
On the bedside table, the line stood out prominently.
Sensing her gaze, Leland also looked over. “When you have time, paint me a new painting, one that is complete.” He was no longer a mere substitute.
To him, this painting was a reminder of his past identity as Garrison’s stand-in.
He didn’t like the painting, but he cherished the line written on the back. Only that line was Winifred’s, and it… was the first time Winifred had wished him a happy birthday, making it special.
He had the line from the back of the painting framed, with a frame he had carved himself, a detail he had not shared with Winifred.
That night, as they were about to sleep, Leland told Winifred, “Every night when you’re not here, I look at the words you left for me on that painting, touch the frame. Originally, the frame was smooth and reflective, but now it’s… like this.”
Winifred would have another sleepless night. She couldn’t sleep, and her headache worsened. She reached for her medicine bag, intending to take a sleeping pill, but Leland stopped her, tossing the pills into the trash.
“What are you doing?” Insomnia made her irritable. Winifred clenched her fists, her eyes bloodshot, staring at Leland. She wanted to hit him, suffocate him with a pillow, stab him hundreds of times, chop his body into pieces, and feed the fish in the aquarium.
She had never had such horrifying thoughts before. She was consumed by a surge of impulsivity, feeling that it was the only way to relieve her frustration. She stood barefoot on the floor, her curled toes revealing her emotional turmoil, on the brink of a breakdown.
Unaware of her intentions, Leland said, “It’s not good to take too many sleeping pills. You took one in the afternoon; you shouldn’t take another at night.”
“I can’t sleep if I don’t take them.” Her voice trembled.
Looking at her meaningfully, Leland said, “If you can’t sleep, find something to do.”
Before Winifred could react, she found herself pinned to the bed. Then came a storm of wet kisses, landing on her furrowed brow and pursed lips.
People can’t help but admire beauty. There’s a saying, isn’t there? Everyone loves beauty.
Leland was undeniably rare, attracting many admirers. But to Winifred, he was detestable to the point of wanting to scratch that handsome face.
She was about to act on her impulse when Leland noticed and pressed her wrist, thwarting her. He continued to shower her with kisses, intense and affectionate.
Wanting to bite him as she had during the day, Winifred’s teeth descended, but Leland deftly avoided it and nestled between her neck, his warm breath tickling her ear, sending shivers down her spine.
Observing her reaction, Leland coaxed her in a tone used for soothing a child. “Stop playing around, okay?”
“I’ll keep playing. So what?” Winifred retorted. To Leland, it was like a child throwing a tantrum, but she was genuinely distressed, and who was the one really causing the disturbance?
“It won’t end well.” Leland chuckled, but in his mind, another answer loomed.
If Winifred complied, this place was a castle; if she didn’t, it was a prison.
Her little tantrums in bed added to the excitement for him.
Winifred bore many marks on her body. This time, Leland was gentler, yet Winifred resisted fiercely, tears streaming down like peas, soaking the pillow beneath her cheek.
That night, Leland wore Winifred out multiple times, but this time, he took precautions. He didn’t want her to resort to medication; she had already taken too much.
The box of small umbrellas was almost empty, and Winifred was panting, her voice hoarse and barely audible. Her eyes drooped, and Leland effortlessly lifted her like a dying cat.
Carrying her to the bathroom, which could almost pass for a bedroom, he lay her on the bathtub’s edge. Thoughtfully, he placed a thick towel behind her to cushion her lower back.
Leland was a despicable man. Winifred couldn’t voice her thoughts aloud, only curse him in her heart.
He was truly despicable, inhuman. Not treating her like a person, his skills were abysmal, and he never kept his promises.
He had said he wouldn’t touch her if she cried.
She cried from pain, yet he still came.
Then he said if she begged him, he would stop.
With her hoarse voice, Winifred forced out a plea, but he intensified his actions, each one carrying a sense of unrelenting hatred.
Her disgust was palpable, but he pretended not to notice. She cursed him, and he turned a deaf ear. Later, she said she was tired and wanted to sleep, but he ignored her plea.
Leland’s “last time” on the bed never reached its conclusion.
After all, once a wolf has tasted flesh, it doesn’t go back to eating grass. It’s like having a binge after a strict diet even when the food is right at your lips, you can’t swallow.
It’s instinct.
If willpower were a measure, Leland’s willpower would be outstanding. He had great endurance, yet every time he was with Winifred, he lost all sense of reason, like a wolf unable to resist its primal desires.
In the depths of emotion, Leland would embrace Winifred’s waist and say, “Winifred, one day I’ll die in your arms.”
The statement seemed cheesy, but coming from Leland, it wasn’t. It was chilling, like being submerged in an icy pond.
Any romantic lines he uttered carried a menacing tone.
As Winifred drifted off to sleep, her final thought was: “Nonsense, if anyone’s going to die, it’ll be me.”
Because, all along, it was her enduring pain and humiliation.