CHAPTER 05 

Pandora huffed out a small breath of exhaustion, tugging on a thin strand of her neatly brushed caramel-brown hair, as Clifford coloured her manuscript in red. She’d been saturated in his tobacco-scented room. Her mouth tasted foul, not from the vodka she’d been swirling around her mouth, but from the disgust she had for her father’s voice. His rough stone-like voice burrowed through the frail  layers she’d piled up over, trying to blanket herself away from the shivering beast. Pandora knew the bitter truth. That she was nothing but a badge of pride, Clifford wore on his crisp star-like white shirts. 

Pandora deeply detested her life, and the skill she had been gifted with. She had imagined what it would’ve been like, to not have been born with hands. Fantasizing about the life she could’ve lived, if she hadn’t been made to write, young Pandora had desired to chop them off. The girl loved writing, as it came naturally to her. She was undeniably talented, and Pandora adored the praise and admiration she’d receive for her work. But her talent left her scarred and bruised, chained to the very beast she’d been seeking to outrun. She developed her skill, narrating herself stories each night, as she fell asleep, it’s all the child could do. Nestling safely inside the warm walls of her imagination, Pandora escaped Clifford, her monster.

Sharp stings of jealousy brewed within her like the acidic contents in a cauldron. Her nails dug deeper into the thin sheet of paper-skin on her palm. Why was I born as your child? Why did I get trapped in this cruel joke with you? Pandora’s mind rushing back to Eleanor’s joy-coated voice “I’ll be hanging out with my mum tonight”, her skeleton fingers skinned further into her hands. “That’s enough Pandora!” Clifford roared, “you think I don’t notice what you’re doing? You’re hurting your hands”, his voice softened. Clifford reached out, taking her puny hands, his coarse fingers brushing over hers. Clifford gently pressed a serviette over her palm, whipping away the slight drizzles of blood. “You must take care of yourself, Pandora.” Clifford uttered, his face glamping with a warm shade of fatherly care. “You’re my daughter Pandora. You’re my child. When you walk outside of this house, you don’t just represent yourself. You represent me:, Clifford re-informed her, his grip on her delicate wrists. The healing marks of her wound, being ripped open, as he coloured her arms purple. “You’re not just Pandora.” He shot, “You’re a Warren”. Raising to his feet, Clifford’s rugged claw brutally hit her face, “don’t you dare humiliate me this way”. 

Pandora stood in shock, her glass eyes sprinkled with tears. She bit down on her tongue, rage rushing through her veins. Why the hell am I scared of you? Pandora thought, not being able to accept the fact that she still hadn’t gotten used to his ways. 

“You may leave,” Clifford finished, dismissing her. 

“Thank you father. I’ll do my best.” Pandora promised, swallowing back her tears.

“Of course.”

Fiona. Pale. Fair. White. 

Fiona was Pandora’s birth mother. And if Pandora had been granted the chance to have met her, she would’ve seen just how much alike they really were.  

Autumn scented hair, rosy-plush skin and naïve deer eyes, Fiona was the epitome of innocence. Fiona derived from a long line of great wealth. She was educated, polite and a student hoping to be a writer of children’s books. Fiona was unarguably beautiful. Strawberry-brown soft curls fell across as bangs on her rose-white face, with the rest lifted up above her head into a ponytail. She had lotus-pink coated plump lips, and a thin strand of pearls kissing her neck. Fiona wasn’t just beautiful. Fiona was adorable. And it was that child-like innocence that entrapped Clifford. 

The 39 year old author had been infatuated by the younger woman when he first met her at a fan sign event. She’d conjured herself in his distorted world of delusions. Falling head over heels, for the charms of the sharp-tongued, intelligent and divinely handsome author, Fiona agreed to his courtship. And it was only a year later, the naïve 21 year old accepted Clifford’s marriage proposal. If only she had said “no”, for Fiona hadn’t realized that she’d shot herself in the foot.

Marrying her paragon was a dream come true. It would be for anyone. To be with your paragon. To love your paragon. And to be loved by your paragon, was what every fan dreamt of. And Fiona had too. 

It started with the small things. Clifford felt a sense of authority over Fiona, as he was 19 years older than her. He’d asked Fiona to change her diet, stating that he cared for health. He then requested her to keep her hair ironed, straight at all times, again stating that it was for her own good. Clifford then instructed her to wear white, and only white, cutting her up to fit the image of the characters he held in his mind. Clifford groomed the 21 year old. 

His caring suggestions soon turned into harsh insults and critics. Clifford enjoyed how submissive Fiona was to him. And he felt great pleasure in seeing how powerless she was. He knew the value his words held over her, and Clifford played his cards well. He tore bits and pieces off of her, creating dark holes of insecurity and fear in Fiona, Clifford wanted more. So he did what all egotistic men yearned for. He cheated. 

Clifford cheated. And cheated. And cheated. He left a trail of his red-rose affairs for Fiona to watch, hurting her even more. He’d abuse Fiona, each time she’d bring his infidelity up, forcing her to drown alone in her silence and grey isolation. He drank to her misery, and slept beside a different woman each night, smirking as he pictured Fiona’s pained face. 

Fiona was a naïve deer wheedle in a trap of roteening honey. She was also a hopeless romantic, as she’d been raised that way. Raised in a family full of laughter, comfort and love. Her fairytale childhood led to her death, for she delusionally clung onto Clifford, believing he’d change. Fiona was blinded by Clifford’s empty honey-jar promises, and she refused to take off her rose-shaded glasses, hoping for a better version of him. She stayed. 

Fiona stayed. Even when one of his mistresses had presented herself, with a round belly in front of Fiona. She stayed. That mistress birthed Clifford’s first child. A son. Tobias. Leaving the baby at the foot of their porch, the mistress vanished. 

Fiona didn’t mind that the baby she held in her arms was an illegitimate child. He was Clifford’s son, so he was her’s. Fiona accepted him into her heart of unconditional love, and she raised him. It was Clifford who found it outrageous at this point. He hadn’t planned on birthing a child with any of his mistresses. All he desired was to taunt Fiona. And it deeply upset the narcissistic beast within him, when he saw her smile at the baby, she carefully cradled close to her chest. 

So he woke her up one night, feeding her rose-lies, Fiona was quick to forgive him. Clifford led her to the garden, directing her towards the pond with the statue of Mother Mary inside it. Fiona had designed the statue to have placed in there, symbolizing the love of a mother, she desperately desired to give. Inside that very pond, was where Clifford had left the stiffening body of Tobias. And he led his wife to it, knowing just how heartbroken she’d be. 

Clifford had drowned his son. And it was at that hour, when Fiona finally broke, giving Clifford exactly what he’d been craving for. Fiona broke in his arms. And Clifford rejoiced at how powerful he felt, seeing her break character. 

Not too long after, Fiona, now 22 found out that she was carrying a child. Letting shrieks and squeals of excitement spill out of her, she’d spend her time reading fairy tales in the garden. 

“Your brother was once here. And he still is.” She’d caress the fabric of her dress covering her womb. She soon brought life to Pandora, a character Clifford had been working on in one of his novels. And the infatuation he had for Fiona disappeared just as soon as it had trapped him in her candy world. He grew obsessed with Pandora. With his authoritative shadow casting over Fiona, he held all the power over Pandora, and he forbade the woman from seeing her child, killing her. 

Fiona gave up on herself, and fought to hold Pandora in her arms, for she had fantasized loving a child her whole life. Pandora was all Fiona had ever wanted and needed. Fiona carried a golden pot of overflowing unconditional love for Pandora, and she longed to hold and kiss her baby. Fiona would’ve never given up on Pandora. Fiona didn’t. The 23 year old never jumped from the balcony. Clifford had pushed her in a fit of rage, a howling battle to win Pandora. Clifford killed Fiona. 

How ironic it was. Their fates twisted up into the brown pages of Clifford’s novel. Pandora lived with a ghost inside her, feeling empty and desiring to be loved. While Fiona died, longing to give that love to her child, Pandora.