Machia Veil Timeline

4:45 am, June 24th – Bellatorn Estate, Denewood, Surridge

The manor was silent. Nate stirred. The bedsheets had a pungent smell of deodorant and stinking feet. Half-awake, he needed to retch.

He scampered to his ensuite bathroom and vomited. Holding onto the latrine, wishing his father walked in for comfort. But he’s in hospital with mum.

He mustered the strength to get up.

The courtyard was empty. Friends and family cars that landed the night before were gone. Nate did a double take. They stayed at times like these. He sat on his bed again and collapsed face upwards. The first rays of sunrise pierced through the window, casting an orange glow on the ceiling.

No more retching. A wave of relief washed over him.

He reached for his guitar but found only empty air. Puzzled, he sat up. Scouting the room, he strolled into his walk-in closet and back out. Past the rich mahogany chest of drawers. As his gaze wandered, it came to a sudden halt. On the wall opposite him hung a photograph of his mother with Miles, frozen in a moment of shared happiness. Mile’s hair was a different colour. Standing next to them was someone he didn’t recognise.

Nate’s brows furrowed as he regarded the blue-framed photograph. His mother’s warm smile and Miles’ familiar grin were unchanged. But this mysterious third individual threw a disconcerting shadow over the image. Why would his mother give such prominence to a stranger?

With a mixture of curiosity and unease, Nate studied the red-haired teen.

Then he got distracted. Where is my guitar?

I must have taken it downstairs. Still recovering, he waited a bit.

The sun kept rising, infusing the room with light. Where there used to be pastel grey covers, these were now dazzling green. The tropical wallpaper was different. The colours were raw green yellows and reds. He lifted his right hand to his eyes. The sensory overload prompted him to close the blinds and curtains.

Ah, relief! Dark at last.

***

Three hours later

A waft of percolating coffee and toast travelled from the dining hall to his bedroom.

His eyes opened.

Stretching his arms, he searched for his guitar again, hoping it had all been a bad dream.

Ah, still not here.

He headed to the bathroom, now in full daylight. It was blinding! But on the way, the bedroom window paralysed him. An odd shape. Lopsided!

There was an unreasonable supply of lilacs and crimsons in the courtyard. In the sky too. The lawn was different. Flowers were a piercing red and green. The white marble statues that lined the driveway were red marble. Instead of the white sculpture of the Belladonna Prima holding a sleuth of grapes in the air, she was now protecting the grapes. A statue of a man reaching his arm out, now cowered in fear.

Two gardeners arrived. One in red, the other in brown. A stark contrast to the usual dark green uniforms. He stared at the gardeners. Their faces were flushed. One pointed a finger at the other. The other throttled his neck.

Woah! Nate averted his gaze. Wait, the chambers in the maze were full of overgrown weeds!

Nate clenched his shirt. The air was thick and oppressive.

Screams came from the ground floor. Nate stepped onto the third-floor landing. No one ever shouted in Bellaton. Was it Cabernathy? The stairs and landings had warped! His eyebrows tensed. Still in pyjamas, he strode into his walk-in dresser.

Breathing in to six. Hold. Out. One, two, three, four, five, six.

Wait. The clothes are different!

It was irrational to panic. Everything was fine.

A designer jacket called his attention, but he dismissed it as a forgotten gift. He set out clothes and jumped into the shower. Twenty mins later, he was ready to leave his room, but his phone was nowhere to be found.

First the guitar, now my phone. He searched around him, to no avail.

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Scratching his cheek, he headed one floor down to his mother’s bedroom. He craved lying on her bed before heading back to the hospital.

But on arrival, his mother was there! Unconscious.

His eyes brightened, dashing to her side.

“Mum!”

She was latent.

Standing up, he retreated, “Miles, Cabby!”

No reply.

He got close again and fell to his knees. She was not on life support.

There’s breathing!

He wanted to weep. There were staff in the corridor, and he jumped towards the door.

He expected Miles would unravel the mystery of finding Mum at home.

On the way, he found Alekee.

“Alee! Why is my mum back?” his voice trembled. His cousin was wearing overalls with curling antennae.

Alekee blinked. Mouth open.

“Mate!” said Nate, wanting to comment on the costume.

Alekee responded in slow sign language.

Why was Alekee signing when he could speak? They stood there, face to face.

Nate stepped backwards to break the tension. “Is Aunt Matea home?”

He shook his head, his eyes wide as moons. Without explanation, Alekee up and left.

“Alee!” said Nate, fixing his gaze on his cousin.

How very odd.

Heading to the dining hall for breakfast, he envisioned Miles would be there. He was fidgety but relieved at the sight of Cabby.

“Cabby, how come Mum is here? Where’s Miles?”

Cabby had a bleak countenance. His posture bended, and he was hyperventilating.

“And you might be?” he asked.

Cabby had a facial tic.

Nate chose not to react. “Cabby. Something is up with Alekee. He is using sign language. When did he learn sign language?”

More screams broke out, and Nate shivered.

“No,” said Cabby. “Who are you?”

Nate snorted. First Alekee, now Cabby. There was an intensity to this dream. Wake up! The art on the walls filled him with dread. He dragged his palms down his trousers. The bread tasted mouldy, and he coughed.

Better leave the dining hall.

Heading upstairs, he searched for his brother when Cabernathy hollered from behind.

Nate quickened his pace. Best to run.

The floors creaked, and he fretted the dogs would expose him. Wait. Where are the dogs?

Everything was so black and white. Or rather red and purple. Laine arrived just as he was making his way to the kitchen. Also dressed up in a vibrant turquoise and orange costume.

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Laine, you’ll never believe what just happened,” he said, glancing at her costume. “Why are you and Alee wearing costumes?”

Laine’s gaze darted to the door. “No, I don’t recognise him… help! The intruder! Here!”

Stop!

She locked herself in Aunt Matea’s side of the manor.

“Why are you being like this?” said Nate, his breathing shallow and rapid.

Scuffles and alarmed screams filled the house.

He raced downstairs, out the front door and down the valley to Rossmead. Stumbling, and tearing his new clothes. He knew Uncle Tim and Auntie Jade would make everything alright again.

But when he made it to the old cottage, Nate’s jaw dropped.

“C-c-can’t be,” he said, blinking.

The old home was lifeless. Abandoned. Also twisted and warped. The constructions made no sense.

Placing his hands to his head, he slumped. Everything was spinning. He raised his gaze at the ravaged home. There had been a fire.

***

The distant hollering spurred Nate to run through the woods until he reached the old maple tree. Only to be mystified by Bellaton’s facade. A warped construction of loud colours and mismatched geometry. His eyes shot from corner to corner, paralysed by the insanity of the place.

Hours later, hungry and cold, he climbed down from the tree and headed towards the manor. He stepped on some twigs and froze on the spot. Still no dogs! He reached a side window. Despite its unusual shape, he pried it open.

Warmth at last! Amid his leap inside, a hand gripped his shoulder, halting his movement. A shiver ran down his spine.

“How did you get in?”

“I don’t have to answer to you,” said Nate, eyeing the guard.

“Huh, attitude! - Did those paps pay you?”

“Paid? This is my home!”

The guard pressed his lips whilst dragging Nate towards the gate.

“One last chance. How did you get in? Who paid you?”

Nate dropped his shoulders and shook his head.

They remanded him that night in the furthest gate from Bellaton. Just by the exit. Surrounded by prism, warped structures. A guard pried Nate for information, but he remained tight-lipped. That night, he slept in the hut next to the gate on the hardest bed he’d ever slept on. The next morning, Nate’s eyes were red. He was famished. The morning shift arrived.

Another guard pushed Nate towards the exit.

“Wait!” said Nate, who, like an octopus, held on to the guard.

The officer lost patience and pushed him.

The exit door loomed ahead. As they approached it, an overpowering urge to cry consumed him.

“This is my home! Stop this! My dad will have you fired! Wade! Where’s Wade?” Nate’s voice quivered as he grasped the officer.

Without money, without security. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He had endured the relentless swarm of the press one time too many.

But they forced him out.

Nate tumbled as he exited the gate, and upon encountering the tabloid press, he cowered. Predicting they would photograph him, he avoided eye contact.

The crowd outside observed him.

He scrutinised the scene. Nothing! A reporter smiled at him, intrigued, but that was it.

They don’t recognise me!

He walked away from the gate in a daze. A couple of paparazzi came closer to him.

“Hello, any inside info?” asked one of them.

“Any what? Er, no, I was, um, delivering…,” said Nate.

“What, delivering what and to whom?”

The Bellaton entrance caught Nate’s attention as it re-opened. A scuffle erupted, filling the air with shouts and camera clicks. He made a frantic sprint towards it, but the deafening roar of the press drowned his calls for help, while a bright green car with tinted windows tumbled into the road.

Out on the road, he stared at the main gate of his home and the racing press.

Nothing makes any sense, any sense at all.