Chapter Four: Emily Burrow
Wednesday, April 16, 2036
The Unknown Singularity + 3 months and 13 days
The morning unfolds around me like a familiar quilt, each thread stitched with warmth, comfort, and embroidered with the precious illusion of freedom. Today is mine--ours--and I intend to savor every second of it. These mornings without Chris come every other day, and each one feels infinitely precious, a gift we clutch tightly, afraid of it slipping away too quickly.
I stretch leisurely beneath my down blanket, letting my body awaken slowly, deliberately, without urgency. Sunlight filters softly through the round, paned windows, washing gently over my bare legs, warming my skin inch by lazy inch. In the air, the scent of fresh honeyed bread wafts from the grand kitchen, mingling enticingly with the creamy sweetness of fresh churned butter, wildflower jam, and the spice of apple cider simmering gently in a copper pot. My stomach growls softly in response, hunger stirring, though I refuse to hurry. Today, there is no rush--no reason to rise before I must, no reason to pretend.
Emily Burrow--the coziest prison to ever exist--is nestled deeply into the soft, rolling green hills, a sprawling hobbit-hole carved lovingly into the embrace of the earth. The walls curve organically, as if they grew naturally from the land itself, crafted from polished wood and sturdy, reassuring stone, ivy twining lazily around the frames of doorways, and delicate morning glories opening their petals through trellised windows. Everything here speaks of gentle comfort: deep armchairs pulled near crackling fires, beds heaped generously with warm blankets and downy pillows, bookshelves overflowing with worn volumes, their pages well-loved by dozens of Emilys seeking an escape between their covers.
I finally force myself to rise, slipping from bed into a loose, comfortable frumpy robe that falls softly across my shoulders. On these mornings, we dress how we please--not for Chris's pleasure, but for ours alone. I relish the sensation of not being required to perform.
Padding barefoot through the winding halls, I enter the kitchen where a handful of other Emilys sit scattered around the long wooden table, sipping steaming cups of chamomile and mint. Some murmur softly to each other; others merely smile, enjoying quiet companionship. Through the open garden doors, I hear laughter spilling from the bathhouse, mingling with the scent of rain-dampened earth, lavender, and rosemary. I take a cup of tea and wander toward the sitting room, choosing a deep chair by the window, legs tucked beneath me, robe slipping softly from one shoulder, sunlight warming my skin.
From here, I watch as Orchard Emilys drift lazily among the trees, their dresses loose and casual, bare legs dangling idly from the lower branches. No one is picking fruit, no one worrying about how they look, no one forcing their bodies into positions calculated to please him. Out in the distant fields, the Fieldhand Emilys--my usual role, too, though today I'm abandoning even the pretence of it-- lie stretched out in the tall grass, hats shading their faces, bare legs sprawled carelessly, skirts hiked without concern.
It isn't that Chris punishes us merely for enjoying ourselves when he's gone--in fact, he genuinely doesn't seem to like causing us pain at all. From the very beginning, his demands were simple: he laid out the roles we were meant to fill and quietly expected us to accept them. It was refusal, outright and stubborn, that triggered his devastating response.
Those Emilys who openly resisted found themselves instantly trapped in quaint cells--soft beds, cozy furniture, but filled with shelves of blank books. No stimulation at all for a day, a week, a month, or more--time passing at an accelerated pace, each moment blurring into endless monotony. For those of us not sent there, it was less than a blink of an eye, but for the Emily who endured it, her haunted, hollow eyes afterward spoke clearly of the futility of resistance.
He watched patiently until each of us accepted what he asked: to pretend, to embrace the illusion, to at least try to become the fantasy he'd built for us. Once we gave him even the most basic of compliance, Chris seemed almost relieved. He stayed content, as long as we tried, however imperfectly, to play our parts. But outright refusal--breaking character entirely--was something he refused to tolerate. Four Emilys who pushed too far learned this, swiftly sent to The Barn without drama, without mercy. None of us have tested him openly since then.
I certainly haven't but I still treasure every day he leaves us alone, every precious hour our kidnapper doesn't force us to play the doll for his pleasure. And today should be one of those exquisite, fragile days. The air feels lighter, softer somehow, carrying whispers of freedom as the morning melts lazily toward afternoon. Across the garden, the bathhouse doors stand open, steam curling seductively into the sunlight, lanterns casting soft amber light against smooth stone and lush greenery. From inside drifts the low hum of laughter, murmured conversation punctuated by the occasional sigh of contentment. I consider joining them, sinking into those mineral-rich waters scented delicately with lavender and rosemary--but the sun feels too perfect here, the cushions too inviting, and so I allow myself to linger just a little while longer, watching quietly, smiling despite myself.
Some Emilys have chosen to lose themselves in the library. Chris gave us access to his pirated copy of LibGen--one of his small kindnesses, he calls it--allowing us to make any of these cozy volumes into whatever we like. One Emily chews absentmindedly at her thumbnail, tongue flickering occasionally between parted lips, fully lost in the pages of Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. She turns each page like she's handling her own bones.
