A deed, once committed, can never be undone. Like an irreversible tattoo, forever besmirched...
~

They were a thousand miles from nowhere, wheat fields as far as she could see. Michaela walked over to her veranda. The breeze was as fresh as she expected. A smile crept over her face as she tilted her head to the side, landing her sight on a rocking chair, then smiled as it swayed. Her lover stared back at her—midnight eyes, a plain white long-sleeved shirt, and jeans with a pumpkin patch on the leg—hauntingly reminded her of how they met.
    
It happened many years ago and it almost felt like it had been a dream. But it did happen.

***
     It had been the start of winter. The vast greenery that covered her surroundings was replaced by a blanket of snow. The annual celebration of her debut in the music industry was mindlessly held outdoors, amidst a spectrum of a whalebone-white deserted street. No one arrived to watch her concert. Yes, she was popular, but that day was a total let-down. Her team comforted her failed performance by stating that perhaps, the people decided not to come out due to the weather. They had a point, and they had warned her prior  the concert. However, Michaela refused to heed their advice which ultimately led to a catastrophic ending.
    
She was in low spirits as she made her way to the makeshift dressing room at the back of the stage. There was a definitive lull to her step. They seemed not to be in a hurry to get anywhere. And why would they be, given that her current situation appeared to have been stolen right out of a tragic teen novel? No one was there to see her. No one was present to hear her woes. She felt alone and abandoned. As she entered the small edifice, tears dripped in the corners of her eyes before she even closed the door behind her. It was heart-breaking to stand in front of a stage where only her dancers and staff were present with no other spectators in sight.
    
She made her way toward her vanity mirror, gazed at her reflection, and then wiped the streaks of salty fluid from her cheeks. She hadn't noticed it at first, it had taken her about three minutes before her eyes caught sight of a black box sitting on the edge of her drawer. Frowning, she picked it up. It had a black ribbon intricately laced around it with a white note that said, to Michaela. Curiously, she opened the box, and there, inside, was a neatly folded paper.
    
It was a letter from a fan. She wasn't new to those types of things. She'd often receive some at least three times a week. She hadn't truly made accommodation in reading her fan letters in the past, but on that day, she felt so alone, she decided to read through that one. There was nothing special about the letter, it began like any fan letter she previously received. But, when she got to the end, that's when a smile replaced the tears she shed minutes ago.
    
Your sorrows, they are like acid to me. I know being an artist isn't easy and I wish I could do more than just fade in the throng of people that chants your name whenever you're on stage. Every time a shadow is cast over your face, it pains me a thousand times more. I would often wish I could come up to you and say that everything is okay and that you're allowed to take a break, but we both know that's not possible. But know this, Michaela, and you must have heard this a thousand times over; I'm here for you if you'd ever need someone to talk to.

Your number one fan,
Darren.
    
Those words shed light on her anguished heart, and from then on the black box came, every Friday of each week. She first regarded them as simply; letters. But as the months progressed, she found herself waiting and searching through a pile of fan mail for that particular box. As she continued to read them, she'd often wish he'd write an address where she can send her replies, but he never did.  However, that changed on the first anniversary of his letters to her. It came, on a Thursday, instead of a Friday. Perhaps, because Darren felt that she needed someone to understand her.
    
See, two days before that letter, the awards ceremony for the best artist of the year was held. Michaela was nominated. She won, but her success was met with scrutiny by the media and critics. One article in the newspaper even stated that perhaps, she bought the judges. But what truly broke her heart was when the news anchor mentioned on live television that she, Michaela Brandy was not a great singer and her songs were too childish to even find themselves on top of the charts. He went on to say that she was nothing more but a pretty face on top of a voluptuous body, and that's why she was getting attention.
     
Those words tore her into shreds. She was an orphan, so she had no parents to comfort her. All she had was a large trust fund set up by her deceased parents and a guardian who was a lawyer; Mr. Shaw. But he was a married man, oftentimes focused on his family, only caring about her when the time for her monthly allowance arrived.
    
As her name dominated the news in the most negative of ways, Michaela felt like dying. She had the mind to kill herself that Thursday night, but when she found a black box sitting on her front porch, all thoughts of being alone diminished. Darren's letters always made her feel better. She hurriedly picked up the box, not even bothered by how it got there.
    
I saw you in the news today. Why are you so sad? Don't let their words get the best of you. You're a great artist. You should be happy they called you pretty. Just take the positive and let the negative fly by your ear. I think that news anchor is associated with the other artist that went against you during the awards. I bet it was she who paid them, and yet, she still lost. Your songs are topping the charts because your lyrics have a soul; something that the others don't have. I know you need someone to listen to you, and I guess I should have done this a long time ago, but here, below is a PO Box where you can send me a letter. Tell me everything, Michaela, I will listen. I will never judge you. Whatever you want to speak about; the things you keep hidden in your heart, pour it all on me. Let me be a cushion or a punching bag for your woes. I don't mind. Please smile.

Your number-one fan
Darren.
    
From then on, she and Darren exchanged letters. He always had kind and reassuring words for her. But what truly amazed her about his letters was that, despite the obviousness of his love for her, his letters never boarded to anything sexual or unsettling which was great. She received lots of those from the creeps that called themselves her eternal fans.
    
They communicated for years, and soon, Michaela found herself falling in love with him. Sometimes, she'd wish he'd ask her to meet him, or perhaps, say something in his letter that would hint to her of his intent for an actual relationship, other than exchanging written words. But he never did. He became her sole anchor to sanity against the torturous life in the industry. He became her air when things suffocated her, and her cushion when she felt like falling from the high and consuming world of the entertainment industry.
    
But all that changed on the eve of her 20th birthday. Darren's letter came, along with the thousands of fan mails, standing out with its unique black box and ribbon. Michaela allowed a soft smile to play along her lips as she unfolded the letter.

    
Happy birthday, Michaela. It has been four years since we started this journey. I never wanted to come off as a creep, but, would it be possible for us to finally meet face-to-face? If that's okay with you. I wouldn't mind if you refuse. I know you're a big name in the industry now. So it's only fitting to keep yourself safe from rumours. But in case you do agree, below is the address. Meet me there.
#172 Oak Drive, San Benigno. The mansion by the lake.

Your number-one fan,
Darren.
    
When Michaela saw the address, it shocked her. She recognized it as her ancestral home. It had been sold after her grandmother's death. It was a coincidence that piqued her curiosity. So she replied to Darren and agreed. Besides, it was something she had longed to happen. She wanted to meet her beloved.
    
It was a Friday afternoon and the sun was beating heavily on her head. But the heat which often made her squeamish and irritated meant nothing. She was about to meet Darren. Various sweet scenarios danced in her mind and she smiled like a lunatic on the side of her car. However, when a passerby saw her and raised an eyebrow, her sweet imaginings dissipated.

She shook her head and freed herself of  whimsical thoughts. Michaela then proceeded to enter her car. The travel to San Benigno province would take about five hours. She could have taken a plane which would greatly reduce her travel time but opted for her car on the last minute. She was a celebrity and despite dressing up in heavy clothing and wig, she feared someone would still recognize her. The paparazzi's had a third eye, hard to believe, but that's what she believed.

When her car took off and the city fell behind her in a heep of dust, Michaela thought about the years she communicated with Darren. There had been many occasions when she felt the need to meet him, planned on catching a glimpse of him by hiding behind a tree the Po.box where her letters to him was addressed, but none of those ever saw light. She knew one scandal was enough to ruin her hard-earned reputation and career. But perhaps, the biggest reason was Darren never dared to open the topic of meeting each other. She never wanted to sound desperate, so she too, never said a word.

But now of those things matters to her now. She was finally meeting him. She was a high as she drove and soon, she found herself in front of a mansion. However, something didn't look right.

Frowning as she descended from her car, Michaela's eyes turned wide as saucers. She expected to find a fully renovated home, but from where she stood—meters from the gate—she noticed that the mansion was in ruins. That should have scared or deterred her, but she wasn't truly thinking, only drowning in the thought that she'd finally meet Darren. So she made her way across the desolate street, crossed the gates, and there, it stood.
    
She had walked and played inside it over a million times when she was young. But there was an incident in her life that made her parents never to allow her to enter the mansion again. The reason though, time had taken. She couldn't remember why. What she does remember, was the house and her grandmother terrorized her. Logically, memories like that should have served as a warning to anyone sane, but Michaela was too enthralled at the thought of meeting the boy she loves; no, she should say, man—since Darren had mentioned that they were the same age.
    
Her shadow loomed in front of her, signalling the slow descent of the sun from the horizon as she moved forward, but that wasn't enough to impede her strides. She knew it was stupid to have chosen to meet Darren at night. But being the popular artist that she was, she couldn't risk the light of day. As she made her entrance to the thick bushed garden in front of the mansion, she momentarily had a foreshadowing of what may lay, and happen inside; things like macabre scenes, a killer, or her soon-to-be corpse laying in wait, only to be found years later. That shortly stopped her from taking another step. But as she remembered Darren's letters and how he served as her shield from the world, she once more felt assured that she was safe. As long as it was Darren, she was safe. So she moved forward.
    
When she was a meter from the main door, she sighed. The place no longer held the vibrancy it once had. The idea that someone could have lived in that very mansion seemed almost impossible to comprehend. It hauntingly stood alone, forgotten, but not bare. Because there was something about it, an essence of some sort, but she couldn't truly tell. It scared her. Why had he chosen such a place to meet up? Did the mansion belong to his family now? Or was he planning to do something sinister to her?
    
She almost turned on her heel and walked away, but she wanted to meet Darren, and she knew deep down, he wouldn't harm her. He was kind, and if he was a creep, he would have done things to her years prior, right?
    
She'd written him details about her personal life, one that could have easily given him the advantage to hurt her, but he never did. He even went as far as to warn her not to share too much, not with him or anyone else. So Michaela felt confident; he wouldn't harm her.
    
When she reached the front door, her heart took a loud rhythmic beat, one that she was familiar with. Her heart was drumming as though she had just finished a three-hour performance on stage. But whether that beat was caused by fear of the place or excitement to meet Darren, she could no longer tell. All logical thoughts seemed to have taken a day off; away from her as soon as her feet landed on the porch in front of her.
    
She opened the door, heart slamming rigorously on her chest, and with a pitch, she often used to reach the high notes of her songs, she screamed, "Darren, are you here?"
    
There was no answer. So she made her way inside. As Michaela took one step after another, she couldn't help but grimace. There should be light coming from the outside because the sun had barely set, but the living room was dark, hardly illuminated. Furniture lay upturned, forgotten amidst a pile of rubbish. The mansion smelled musty. There were traces of molds too. As her eyes lingered further from one corner of the room to another, she noticed that the windows were blocked off with slatted shutters but still allowed thin shafts of light from the spaces between them to reveal the dust that swirled thick in the air.
    
Those windows used to be draped with lavish curtains made from expensive fabric. The sight instantly scared her and for a moment, she asked herself again, why had Darren chosen to meet at such a place? Wasn't this how every horror movie started? But his letters to her instantly blocked those thoughts, shoving them into the deep recesses of her mind. Perhaps, Darren knew she wasn't supposed to be seen with any man since that was a rule given by her talent manager. Maybe he was being considerate. That's how he had always been to her, Michaela further surmised.
    
She must have called out his name for five long minutes before Michaela found herself in the foyer that separated the living room from the tea room. There, she took a seat on a worn and dusty couch, then waited. The eeriness of the house and daunting silence unsettled her, but she comforted herself with words like, he is kind. He had been my friend for four years. He only wants what's best for me. I love him. I need to meet him.
    
She couldn't tell how she fell asleep, but she did. When she awoke, she saw nothing. It was too dark. Fingering the cell phone she had in her pocket, she pulled it out and opened its flashlight. The first thing that caught her attention was the presence of a gorgeous-looking man seated on the floor opposite the couch.
    
"You're awake. I feared waking you would give you a headache, so I let you sleep."
    
Eyes wide and throat suddenly becoming dry, Michaela stuttered, "Da...Darren?"
    
He smiled, slowly got up from the floor, and made his way to her side. "It's nice to finally meet you like this, Michaela."
    
Oh my god, he is gorgeous. Those were the only words clear in her head as her eyes took in his image. Shadowed by the darkness but still visible with the aid of her cell phone, Michaela couldn't help but marvel at his big black eyes, long lashes, pink lips, and ceramic white skin. His hair in a hue of charcoal blended in their surroundings, appearing like a soft black blanket that she wanted to nuzzle with. But as she continued to gaze at him, she couldn't shake the feeling that he looked familiar. Had she seen him before? She asked herself, eyes boring into the smiling man next to her. His face looked too young to be twenty, but then again, who was she to judge? She had spent a lot of money on beauty products to keep herself looking like a sixteen-year-old.
    
"Let's head upstairs. I have something to show you," Darren murmured as he stood from the couch.
    
"Aren't we spending time somewhere else?"
    
He looked at her with a smile. "We're already here. Besides, it's dark outside. Who's to tell, maybe some reporter managed to get a whiff of our rendezvous and is waiting outside to take a photo."
    
Those words instantly alarmed Michaela. She wasn't ignorant of the faith of artists who happened to find themselves on the wrong end of a reporter's lens. "Y-Yeah, you're right."
    
Slowly, she got up from the couch and took the hand that he held out to her, and together, they made their way across the gloomy mansion until they reached a staircase.
    
She released Darren's hand—which surprisingly felt cold and hard to the touch—then whispered, "I don't think the stairs would be able to hold our weight."
    
"It looks worn, but it will hold out. I'm fairly certain of that," Darren replied.
    
The words and how he said them gave Michaela the assurance she needed. Carefully, Darren took her hand again, and with him leading the way, they carefully ascended the stairs. She couldn't help but admire his careful regard of choosing which portion of the stairs to land his foot on, constantly reminding her to step where he had stepped. "I will keep you safe." He constantly murmured those words as they continued their way up, turning Michaela's face into a ripe tomato.
    
When they reached the second floor, Darren guided her inside one of the rooms. Shock would be an understatement to describe her face when she stepped inside. Unlike the other parts of the mansion, the room he led her to was clean. There was no dust or rotten furniture. Matter of fact, everything inside it looked brand new. Even the blanket on the double-sized bed seemed like it hadn't been slept on.
    
"Take a seat anywhere you want."
    
Michaela had millions of questions running through her head, but she was muted somehow, why though, she couldn't tell. She made her way towards the bed and sat there.
    
Silence stretched for a few seconds. Michaela argued with herself, whether to speak her thoughts. But soon, she made her decision.
    
"So, I...I have a few questions," she began, eyes carefully following Darren as he crossed the room and sat on the opposite side. He positioned himself to seat on a stool that directly faced the bed where she sat.
    
"Go on, I'm listening," he answered with a smile.
    
"W-Well first, do you live here? I-I mean, his place is near collapse. But from the looks of this room, it seems to me, you're residing in this mansion."
    
"I do. I live here. You're right. This place is falling apart. But it was never like this. It used to be more. You know that, don't you?"
    
There was a weird glint in his eyes when he said those and for a moment, Michaela's heart skipped a beat. "B-But, haven't you thought of living somewhere else? I-I mean this place looks like a cemetery. I-I mean no disrespect, but, really? You don't mind living in a place like this?"
    
"You've turned vain."
    
"What? Excuse me? Me, vain?" Michaela replied. Her eyebrow raised and lips in a grim line.
    
Darren got up from the stool and walked toward a window. "You used to be a kind girl, Michaela" he whispered. The jeans he wore fit him snug as sin, and for a moment Michaela was transfixed by the familiarity of the embroidered pumpkin patch on his left leg. She had seen it before, she felt certain, but couldn't remember when or where.
    
"Sorry, I never meant to offend you," he added as he bowed his head. That caused Michaela to feel guilty. To be honest, she insulted him first. He had the right to have said what he said. But just when she attempted an apology, she noticed Darren had started walking, making his way toward the bed.
    
Without warning, he sat beside her and ran his fingers through her loose hair. It startled Michaela but she didn't pull away. She watched him as his eyes focused on the strand of hair caught between his fingers. "Your hair feels the same." He then leaned forward, guided her hair that was trapped between his fingers toward his nose, sniffed it, and then murmured, "You've changed your shampoo."
    
What the hell was he talking about? Michaela thought to herself as the man beside her continued to take in her scent. Sensing that something was wrong, she scooted away from him. The action seemed to have confused Darren as he looked at her with questioning eyes. "I know this is hard to process, but soon, you will understand," he whispered.
    
Michaela had no idea, nor had she the power to stop what transpired next. She was pushed onto the bed and Darren was instantly on top of her. She screamed when his soft gaze turned malicious and without warning, he ripped her clothes off.
    
"I have waited for your return, Michaela. This place is cold. It's always cold." He ran his tongue over the swell of her breast and that caused Michaela to scream.
    
"Why did you leave me? You loved me! You said we will always be together!" His hands went for the button of her jeans and with all her strength, Michaela tried to push him away. "Why are you doing this, Darren? She screamed amidst tears. But he didn't answer her. The hands she desperately used to push him off were instantly caught and pinned above her head.
    
"No, don't! Why, why?" Michaela shouted as Darren finally rid her of her jeans.
    
By the time he stopped, Michaela only had her bra and underwear on her. Her heart drummed, visibly against her chest. Her breaths came in short gasps as she stared at the man on top of her, who gazed back intensely.
    
"You left me. I tried to wait for you but the walls started to crumble and the air became cold. The nights became too dark. I wanted you to come for me. I waited for you to come," he said, sniffing as tears dripped from his eyes.
    
"What the hell are you talking about," Michaela questioned; voice sounding strained by the raging of her emotions.
    
Darren slowly petted her legs, running up towards the garter of her underwear. "You said you'd come back for me, but you never did. I tried to be nice. I tried to make you remember, but it hurts so much that you have forgotten me."
    
An ear-splitting cry escaped Michaela's throat when Darren bunched the top of her underwear and ripped it off her. She trashed and begged him to stop. She even went as far as to profess her love for him. But the man on top of her was lost as he continued to rip her bra, leaving her bare body for him to take in.
    
"You're a liar. Do you know how much I hate and love you? You abandoned me and yet, I couldn't will myself to hurt you. For years I tried to be content. I tried to live with only your written words as my companion. But it wasn't enough. Communicating with you finally rid me of any guilt. And now that you've come to me willingly, I shall take what has always been mine. You!"
    
She felt the ripping of the soft tissue inside her as Darren pushed something hard, truly hard inside her. She was a virgin but was it supposed to be that hard? It felt like wood.
    
As undulated pain coursed through her body, Michaela could only beg and cry. But no matter how much she pleaded, he never ceased his ministrations. She was near losing consciousness when from the corner of her eyes, she saw the sleeve of his shirt slide up, revealing his wrist. Her realization came like a whisper but raging and haunting. Her eyes spread wide—if they could even go wider at that moment. She couldn't process it, she couldn't believe it, it couldn't be.
    
"Now, do you remember? I love you, Michaela. My master, my gift, my dear, dear, little miss. When the old woman died, I was set free."
    
"B-But why? Why did it have to be like this?"
    
He smiled and then whispered, "This is punishment for leaving me behind. Don't ever do it again, or else." A push from the hard thing he sheathed inside her had her screaming and chasing air. "You will regret it."
    
She lost consciousness after that.
    
In the hug of the abandoned mansion, she stirred and stretched her body. Pain instantly shot from her lower regions up to her spine and torso. Curling into a ball, she remembered the events of the previous night, and like a petrified rabbit, she immediately rose from the bed, stumbling on her feet, eyes scanning her surroundings. The room glowed golden in the light of the new day, its' walls finding their way to join the dawn chorus of melodic birds, seemingly gracious of the brightening sky. But Michaela found no trace of Darren. What she saw though, was a doll. A toy she had loved when she was young.
    
Carefully bending down to pick it up, she raised it in the air. The clothes, the eyes, and the familiar pumpkin patch on its left leg had her dropping the doll and clamping a hand on her mouth. "It... It can't be," she murmured. But as her eyes gazed longer at the doll, sprawled on the floor, a memory from her younger years came flooding in.
    
"Nan, I wish Darren was real. That way, I would have someone to talk to when mom and dad aren't home."
    
Darren was the doll her grandmother gave her on her fourth birthday. The doll served as her companion whenever her parents left for business trips; which was all the time.
    
Her grandmother smiled at her and said, "Well, I have a way to make him real. But..."
    
Innocent eyes looking up, she asked, "But what, nan?"
    
Her grandmother smiled at her and said, "Promise you'd take care of him properly, okay?"
    
"Okay."
    
Her grandmother was called a witch during those days. But Michaela, too young to understand barely gave those words meaning.
    
The following night, Darren had turned into a life-sized doll. He talked, walked, and even ate with her; just as any normal human being would. He still had his doll features though, like the wooden ball and socket that connected his wrist from his hand and his ankles from his leg. She spent a lot of time with him, but only at night, because, during the day, he'd turn back into a doll. But Darren started to act possessively. He started to keep her locked inside her room; it worried her grandmother. She has no idea what her grandmother told her parents, but one day she found herself dictated to never set foot inside the mansion. She never saw her grandmother again. Darren too was lost, hidden somewhere in a dark abyss. Then, the years went by.  Her memory of Darren faded along with her other childhood memories.
    
Michaela was too distraught to drive so she called her manager to pick her up. That incident sparked a new chapter in her life. Her used-to-be upbeat music turned emotional which garnered her a new set of fans. She became even more popular. She became known as the nightingale of dreams. But despite her success, she longed for Darren's letters.  They ceased to arrive after that night in the mansion. She should've been thankful that he stopped. But somewhere inside her, she felt that she had a responsibility to him. It was she who brought him to life. He was her responsibility. She brought him into this cruel world and gave him the heart to feel its pain.
    
Years went by, Michaela dominated the music industry, but she never once had a lover. Because whenever she tried to get close to anyone, they would simply vanish or run away, reasoning that a gorgeous-looking man in a white long-sleeved shirt and jeans with a pumpkin patch on his left leg would threaten them and their family.
    
As those events continued, Michaela found herself inside her ancestral home once more. Darren was where she had dropped him, sprawled on the floor, but clean and luminescent. A daunting contrast against the cobweb-infested, and dust-filled floor—proving to her, that yes, he comes alive, and dusts himself of the haze that covered the mansion. She hated him for what he had done to her but missed him too—weirdly. So she took him with her, and he became her one and only; just as she was to him. It was crazy, she knew that. But living in a world where everyone constantly wanted to eat her alive, she needed her own magical retreat. A scary, but magical escape that only she can ever enter. Besides, there was no escaping him, he made that known, hadn't he?

***
     Michaela smiled at the doll as he rocked the chair. Then, she carefully picked him up. Come nightfall, he would once again turn into a man and the weirdness would begin; once again. But Michaela, at her age of seventy-eight, had learned to live with that, with him, and everything that encompassed his existence.

Because what is yours will always find its way back to you...