Your wedding was a blur. When you close your eyes, you see the silhouette of an event you were sitting in on instead. You try to look down at your feet, but they were tucked under you. Hiding, as if to say, "Don't look." A strong, white wind blows across the room.

What part of your body reacts to its chilling embrace?

My large mouth and full lips, adorned with red lipstick

My long hair, wild and free, with petals tangled in it from the day before

My strong, bridged nose, crooked and with a hump near the eyes

You stir awake in a big, blue bed. Blue cold and empty sheets. Beside you is a thick ring of keys. A bronze key, covered in blue enamel, shaped like a peacock feather takes you to a salon. You are immediately welcomed by a faint mist. Party guests, transforming into peacocks, kiss and play with each other in a haze.

The dizzying nature of the room whispers for you to stay.

You allow yourself to get lost in the alluring haze of the intimate gathering. You stay. You perform. You let them enjoy you.

This haze of thick forgetfulness is a lie. You hold fast to your duties, your community, and your traditions. You leave the room.

The room fills with the heat of writhing bodies, the mating calls of peacocks, and the taste of feathers.

The room coos to you, asking you to shed your skin and be reborn anew.

You allow your body to be transformed, your lips elongating into a beak. A peacock's cry escapes your mouth, as you lose yourself in the mass of bodies.

The oppressive heat and the overstimulation of your senses lay bare the room's demand. You leave a part of yourself behind as you flee, refusing to change.

You find yourself on the highest floor of the manor. The central room has two gloriously velvet blue doors. A golden plaque above the door reads, "The Lord's Chambers". You recall your husband's demands.

He implored you to find no curiosity with only one key: the key to his chambers.

In defiance of your husband, you unlock the door and brace yourself for the horrors you may find inside.

Ever the obedient spouse, you leave the key untouched. You merely peer through the keyhole, prepared to find nothing of import.

You stir awake in a big, blue bed. Blue cold and empty sheets. Beside you is a thick ring of keys. A large, ornate, gold key, with a handle that looks like butterfly wings takes you to a maze of mirrors. Most of the mirrors appear to be accurate. Most of them. A distorted reflection of you speaks in a voice that is not your own.

It offers you a chance to change parts of yourself that others look upon with disappointment and disdain.

You put your hands up to the mirror and push. There's a slight falter of the glass and you step between the cracks, allowing the reflection to change you, to become you, to replace you.

You shatter the glass with the intention to silence the reflection. The shards cut your arms, but you manage to escape intact. You are still you.