#7 Conservatory Of Silence

Edgar never imagined his twilight years would be spent in such exquisite agony.

The conservatory, once a sanctuary of exotic blooms and golden butterflies, had become his prison.

Beside him, Mary—his long-time lover—sits with frail fingers delicately turning the pages of Peter Pan, her favorite book. She reads aloud, her voice honeyed with a bitter sweetness.

But she does not read for him. She reads for herself.

Edgar is merely ‘company’.

As he tries to plead, but the silk gag over his mouth reduces him to pitiful whimpers. His wrists are bound beneath his suit, his body forced into stillness in the grand rocking chair that groans with the rhythm of his shallow breaths.

Behind Mary, skeletal remains linger in rusting cages—husbands, lovers, companions—nature weaving ivy through their ribcages as though reclaiming them in a grotesque embrace. Empty sockets watch, whispering silent warnings of an inevitable fate.

Mary sighs, tucking a silver strand behind her ear.

“Darling, you always did talk too much. I prefer the company of stories. Books don’t interrupt with…opinions.”

The antique clock had frozen just past midnight long ago. Edgar remembers the moment it stopped. Soon, he knows, he too will become another relic in her collection—another silent listener to endless stories.

But then, in the corner of his eye, something shifts.

A man sits by the window—ten years younger than Edgar, his face blank, his gaze lost in the garden beyond the glass. Without hesitation, he lifts a silk cloth from his pocket and ties it over his mouth.

Mary closes her book with a soft thud.

“One moment, Edgar. I need to take care of Bertie.”

Bertie offers no protest. He simply breathes behind the silk.

When Mary returns, she wheels in another cage, its rusted bars groaning, its wheels squealing like a trapped mouse. She opens the door.

“Now, Bertie. Into the cage. No fuss. Soon you’ll sleep, and when you wake, you’ll watch. Just like Edgar.”

Edgar squeezes his eyes shut. It isn’t a nightmare—though he’s had plenty of those.

Mary’s patience thins when Bertie does not respond. With a sigh, she reaches forward and lowers his gag.

“You’re going to make me ill again—just like Edgar did.”

Finally, Bertie speaks.

“Edgar is no good for you, Mary. Choose me. I’ll be good. Choose me.”

Mary tilts her head. “You’re not going to talk like this all the time, are you?”

A pause.

“No, ma’am. This is the last you’ll hear from me.”

Mary smiles, satisfied, and slides the gag back over his mouth. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

Bertie rises and steps into the cage willingly.

“Good boy,” Mary purrs. Then she turns to Edgar, her smile souring.

“But you, Edgar—you always resist.”

She loosens his gag just enough for him to rasp an answer, his voice weary, resigned.

“You told me to resist, Mary. I always did what you asked. Always.”

Mary laughs softly, trailing her fingers along the bars. “Oh, Edgar. That’s not true.”

She glances at Bertie, whose gaze remains fixed on the rain-streaked window, unblinking.

Outside, the sky darkens. Rain begins to patter against the conservatory roof, growing heavier with each breath.

Mary yawns. “Good night, boys.”

“Good night, Mary,” Bertie murmurs, muffled once the gag is back in place.

“Good night, Mary,” Edgar echoes, his gag retightened.

Edgar rises slowly and slips into his own cage. The metal chills his skin.

“Is this meant to have an ending, Edgar?” Bertie whispers after Mary lowers his gag again, just for an answer.

Before Edgar can respond, Mary does.

“Yes. Tonight, it ends.”

Dread coils in Edgar’s stomach.

Then—struggle, a slam of metal, the sharp click of a lock. Edgar whirls.

Mary stands inside a cage, her hands white-knuckled on the bars, her breath ragged. Beside her, Bertie smiles, his gag dangling loose at his neck. He slides the key into his pocket before hurling it into the next room.

Confusion floods Mary’s face. She flicks between Bertie and Edgar as the rain hammers harder, streaking the glass.

“Goodbye, Bertie. Goodbye, Mary,” Edgar whispers through his gag, barely audible.

He steps past the cage, past their frozen stares, and into the storm.

At the threshold, he lets the front door fall shut behind him.

Through the garden fence, he glimpses the conservatory one last time. The cage within has toppled against the glass, cracking it into spiderweb fractures. A silent struggle? Perhaps.

Rain washes over his face. Edgar smiles. Then he laughs—loud, unrestrained—until the night swallows him whole.