We pulled the cap off that once quiet evening and choked on its medicine. The leg bone came popping out of the pink wrapping like a firework, chewed up and stringy. Initially, neither Rho nor I knew what we were looking at, but the lens soon focused. What was most peculiar about our discovery was not the lack of vomit or presence of mind, it was the hollow shadow floating down the path. By the time we were jittering under azure lights, it had vanished, leaving me to question my sanity—if at all possible in that kind of situation. Naturally, we were taken to the station and questioned on the whos, whats, whys, and wheres. When they were satisfied we were innocent bystanders, they released us into society’s maniacal grasp.
When we returned to In Vino Veritas—the writing retreat—we shared a bottle of sherry. As I went over my notes for my story, Rho rested his head in my lap.
“I can’t succumb to bad dreams, Theta.”
Stroking his hair, I sang a lullaby. The trees batted up against the window like the husk of a dozen moths, wild and on the turn.
“I won’t let you.”
There was a knock at the door. I found a box of chocolates along with a little note that read:
Dear Theta and Rho,
I’m sorry you had to be the one to find it.
Sincerely,
In Vino Veritas.
I returned to my notes and ate the chocolates, slightly alarmed by the scarlet jam oozing from its core. Like an ancient spirit, Rho took himself to his bed, shoulders rolling into his periphery. What I couldn’t get out of my mind was that grossly surreal image of the leg bone, and how it protruded through something so beautiful, so celebratory. The meaning of colour was forever changed. With the stench of rot under my nose, I fell into a disturbed slumber.
I woke to the sound of bones breaking. Believing it to be my own, I cried out in anticipation. Though the pain failed to arrive, I took an age getting dressed for the day. Just when Rho woke up, there was a knock at the door. Food was always delivered under a gilded cloche, with beverages too. Rho and I sat in the living area of our room, forcing it down out of necessity. If I looked at bacon long enough, I’d see that stringy meat emerge. I remembered being at school and watching a dissection of the plantar fascia; I couldn’t eat for weeks after that.
At the retreat, you were given five hours of the day to continue your work. The rest of the day—and the evening—was for exploration. Writers are hunter gatherers: we fight for our flesh and bone. Each room had its own private balcony, so while Rho stayed inside, I forged from the outside. Between the both of us, we had creative pieces on what we had found, but somehow they were almost entirely different. I accepted that every person has a unique perspective, but Rho and I were fused together, so it didn’t make sense at all.
When we left the retreat for our exploration period, Rho began to act in the most peculiar way. He spoke of seeing flashes of colour in the distance:
“They’re there, Theta! I see the most glorious streak of gold you ever could!”
I hadn’t yet informed him that I was hearing and smelling strange things, though this was likely my first grave mistake. We had decided to buy some flowers and lay them at the site of the remains. I wandered into the flower shop with no idea of what to buy, but then I was immediately enamoured by the Franz Kafka Dahlias; their shape was extraordinary, and I was sure they were the perfect fit. I bought three of them to eventually arrange into a triangle.
We had expected a heavy police presence, but to our surprise, there was not a soul around. You would not believe there had been body parts discovered there. There were no police cars, no police tape, nor any forensic tents—nada! Rho grabbed my arm forcefully and whispered in my ear, “Look at the rainbow.” It was a dull afternoon with no rainbows in sight. When we laid our flowers, Rho turned to point at something. I thought he was hallucinating again, but when I looked closely, there was a black balloon floating by itself.
At that moment, my head began pounding, and I couldn’t think straight. We started running through the elongated blurring of cars. Breathless, Rho lifted me onto his back.
The door to our room was unlocked and slightly ajar. My notes had been torn into little pieces and pinned to the wall with a dart. Rho ran his fingers along the door frame.
“You’ll get a splinter…”
The commercially valuable had been left untouched, but the same couldn’t be said for what was personally precious. We had no choice but to start our work all over again, but not before heading to the information desk. Having no contact with the residents made it understandably difficult when solving crimes.
“Don’t leave, Theta.” Rho said, “I don’t want a dart to the heart, you know.”
By now, my headache had made my vision fuzzy, and Rho was beginning to look past me. For all our strangeness, this disconcerting sickness did not register. The front desk looked almost normal, except for the recently burned incense sizzling by the bowl of apples. Rho leaned over the desk.
“I thought this place was no contact?”
“That’s what it said on the website, but they didn’t say anything about stalking.”
“You think they’re responsible?”
“Well, who do you suggest it could be?”
Looking round, I suddenly realised an obvious detail.
“Have you seen anyone while we’ve been here?”
“...No, but that can’t be right, can it?”
“Rho, how did we get to In Vino Veritas?”
“We got the train, didn’t we?”
“I thought we came by car…”
We filled in the application form together. How could we have such different memories?
“Ok, here’s the plan. We are going back to that room, rewriting what was torn up, and leaving as soon as it’s done. This way, our money isn’t entirely wasted.”
Before we knew it, the sun had set. Rho took an apple from the bowl and took a bite. His teeth bounced right off.
“They charge this much and they can’t afford real apples?!” he said, rubbing his front teeth.
I couldn’t remember exactly what I had written, but I put that fact to the back of my mind. Diligence was no longer important; as long as we left with our lives (and limbs) intact. Rho scribbled away from his bed, still announcing the various colours he could somehow see. I popped some pills for my excruciating migraine and detailed everything I had seen, smelled, heard, and touched since we got there. Breaking for a little stretch, my eye caught sight of a gruesome painting mounted by the door. Coloured with hues of flaxen and vermillion, a hooded figure sawed at a leg bone. It rested on a silver platter, with lemon slices and sprigs of parsley to garnish.
“Rho, you need to see this.”
He sighed and stumbled toward my frozen figure.
“What now? I was just in the middle of—”
“That wasn’t there before,” I said.
He leaned forwards and inhaled deeply.
“...Fresh paint.”
I felt my head pounding once again, travelling down my neck and to my spine.
“I don’t like this, Theta, I don’t like it one bit.”
Suddenly, a key whined in its lock, and an envelope slid through. Neither of us were brave enough to breathe, we listened as the painful sound of clogged heels grew quiet. Slowly, Rho opened the letter.
Dear Theta and Rho,
It appears we have come to a misunderstanding. I had hoped my gifts would have made things clearer, but that is sadly not the case. Unfortunately, we cannot allow you to leave the premises until your blocked time is up. If my calculations are correct, you have a further two days with us here at In Vino Veritas. While you did have exploratory pleasures, the safety of our residents is paramount. Therefore, you will not be permitted to leave your rooms. Food and Refreshments have now been restricted to items requiring no preparation. If you take a look under your beds, you will find a picnic basket. Again, I am most apologetic that it has come to this. We hope you won’t bear any resentment towards your craft or our establishment.
Sincerely,
In Vino Veritas.
“They can’t stop us leaving, surely?” Rho asked.
“What is there to be said? This is where we find ourselves, so all we can do is obey. If we just keep our heads down for the next two days, we’ll be home and we never have to come back here.”
“Theta, have you lost your mind?”
“Says the man who sees rainbows that aren’t really there.”
Rho reared back his fist.
“Rho!”
He socked me in the ribs, winding me in the process.
“I’m not a liar!”
While I laid on the floor, he went to find our picnic baskets. Still wheezing, a bag of crisps moved into view.
“Salt and vinegar—your favourite.”
Before the retreat, Rho had only ever raised a hand to me once, but his episodes had become more frequent. This prompted me to investigate the room. I didn’t make a habit of licking wallpaper, but I suspected we had been poisoned.
“Theta, what are you doing?”
“The Victorians used to have arsenic in their wallpaper.”
I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I looked gravely tired; unhealthily blue in the mouth. My eyes were frightening—dilated like I’d never seen before. Slamming cabinet doors, I heard Rho calling from the other room.
“Are you done yet? I need to brush my teeth!”
The toothpaste came with our room, just as many of the other toiletries did. We’d brushed a small amount across our teeth and gums each morning and night. It would be the perfect place to disguise poison. Ever the impatient one, Rho burst through the door.
“What are you doing?”
I pressed the toothpaste into his chest.
“Poison.”
Sick to my stomach, I started to pack our things. As I folded my intimates, Rho began laughing from the bathroom.
“Hey! What are you laughing at?”
He stopped, opening the door and returning to his work. I hoped that when we were able to leave, our relationship would level out. We first met at a book group in a Gentlemen's Club. That month’s pick was Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. We’ve been best friends ever since, but I am also a mother figure to him. Whenever we’re together, I will either sing him to sleep or read to him. Time counting down, I slept on the floor for a while.
I felt the bruises form around my stomach. When I opened my eyes, Rho was towering over me. He was breathing heavily, rhythmically kicking me like a petulant toddler.
“Wake. Up.”
Having regained my senses, I noticed the blood falling from both of his hands.
“What have you done?”
The mirror shards fell out of Rho’s hand; raining slowly.
“There is a letter for you,” he said.
Unable to stand, I army-crawled to the door where the envelope was. This letter was only addressed to me:
Dear Theta,
You’re a clever one, aren’t you?
Signed,
In Vino Veritas.
They knew I was getting closer to finding out the truth. Their once cordial manner had faded, leaving behind a clear contempt for initiative.
“What does it say?” Rho asked, now sat on the sofa.
“Nothing really, just—”
“Don’t lie to me, Theta.”
“If you raise your hand to me again, I will cut both of them off and feed them to you.”
“What did you say to me?”
“I don’t know if it’s the poison, but since being here, you’ve turned into a thug who beats women. And I’m telling you right now, once we get out of here, we are going our separate ways.”
Rho launched himself at me, pulling my head back by my hair.
“...You know, this is why we came here, is it not?”
“Let go of me!”
I elbowed him, making him lose his grip. I had nowhere else to go.
“I told you what would happen, Rho!”
I ran into the bathroom and locked myself in. With no mirror, I felt further trapped: with nowhere to escape into. He continued to bang on the door, screaming my name repeatedly. I rubbed my neck, taking off my shirt to feel the cool tiles. Then it suddenly got very quiet. Careful to not make a sound, I twisted the shower head off the pipe and creeped over to the door. I tentatively watched as the knob rattled and twisted. He burst through, sweating and bleeding. Raising my weapon, I struck him on the head. Rho staggered forward before falling down at my feet. I threw the shower head into the bath and stepped over him.
“I told you what would happen, Rho, but did you listen?”
My belongings were scattered across the room. I started with the delicates before moving on to my writing supplies. In the midst of making my bed, I saw yet another envelope.
To Theta,
Check under the sink.
PS. We’ll clean the mess.
IVV.
Sure enough, hidden under the sink was an embellished box. Inside, there was a circular saw. Rho was now laying in a pool of his wine; mouth agape, skin pale. My legs felt like two cinder blocks.
In the foyer, there were no apples, and no burning incense. The reception desk itself had disappeared, almost as though it was never there. I didn’t know how (or if) I was going to get home. My clothes were dirty, my face was greasy, and I stunk of carcass. Exhausted, I fell asleep standing up, until I was disturbed by screeching wheels. A trolley carrying a large present wrapped in pink paper with a black balloon tying it together came towards me.
“Open it,” a voice said from a distance.
I turned to see an older woman in a satin gown, her grey hair in the shape of a croissant.
“Are you the letter writer?”
Now standing in front of me, I saw she had prosthetic hands.
“This was my sacrifice.”
“To be without your hands?”
“Every year, we choose a writer to harvest. That is their service to the craft.”
She opened the pink wrapping to reveal Rho’s head eating his severed hands.
“The hands were a genius move on your part. It really illustrates the importance of what we give away in order to continue our work.”
“...You made me kill him.”
“Oh, my little dove. He’d have died anyway.”
I picked up my suitcase and chucked it across the room.
“Now, now, don’t lose your head!”
I squoze my fists.
“Theta, how long have you wanted to write? Years? Months?”
“My whole life.”
“And you can’t imagine doing anything else?”
“No.”
She picked up my work and brought it to me.
“Everything you have done here is for a greater purpose.”
“I’ve lost…everything.”
“You’re wrong, little dove. By being here, you finally see Rho’s violent nature. He saw you for what he could never be, and that is why he had to go.”
Hitching up her dress, she began to pull the trolley towards the rooms.
“We’ll meet again, little dove.”
As I lost sight of her, two young women walked towards me.
“Hi!” they said in unison, “We’re looking for the writer’s retreat.”
I looked from them, to the living quarters, and back. They shoved past me, tutting away; but that was not the only sound, however, for the chorus of clogged heels continued to bid me farewell.