Like an hesitant artist, the morning sends a few strokes of light through the heavy linen curtains. They are custom-made like everything else in Benedict's house. He should feel blessed, so his wife keeps telling him.
Custom-made bedding, custom-made plates, custom-made clothing. A custom-made image and a custom-made life. Yes, everything in Benedict´s house is custom-made. Including himself.
Not only the curtains, but every little thing in the spacious rooms is embroidered with Benedict's initials. A detail that Serena has insisted upon. She was the one who insisted on only getting custom-made things in the first place, whereas he never cared about it.
The fractured, diffused light paints uneven stripes across Benedict's face as he lies ensconced in his king-sized bed. It isn't just any king-sized bed, but a statement piece. A creation of supple Italian leather that they sourced from a family-run tannery in Tuscany, and paired with Egyptian cotton sheets. They boast a thread count so high that it feels like sleeping on clouds. A luxury. A treat. A blessing.
Things like these would be showcased in Sherry Jones's glossy pages of Havenwood Heaven, a magazine that has been dictating, with unsettling accuracy, the aesthetic of their home and, increasingly so, the ethos of Serena's life.
Benedict is a part of it, her life. But not mandatory to it, she would never cease to point out. More often than not she would fail to see him amidst the costum-made wealth that she has been piling up. On top of him, and oblivious to the sense of suffocation that he would be left to feel.
But he is blessed either way. Blessed with her, his perfect wife. Blessed with their children, and blessed with the life that Serena has built. Yes, SHE has built it. That he might want a different one goes over her head like it never even crossed her mind. Or maybe she just doesn't care.
What she cares about are custom-made pieces and manicured lawns. Like those of Barrington Estates that stretch towards the horizon, like an endless expanse of green. She cares about the grass, their grass. A specially cultivated strain that they got from Scotland, and she cares to daily have it mowed to precisely 2.5 inches. By an entire team of groundskeepers who work tirelessly to ensure that every blade stands at attention.
Serena makes sure that affluence seeps through every area of Benedict's life, down to the soil. After all, he is Dr. Benedict Moore, the country's foremost neurosurgeon. Not just a neurosurgeon, but THE neurosurgeon. A man whose steady and precise hands hold the delicate secrets of the human brain. A person who navigates the intricate neural pathways with the confidence and skill of a seasoned explorer who charters unknown territories.
His reputation precedes him, and he is whispered about in hushed tones in hospital corridors with a blend of awe and reverence. He has saved lives, defied expectations, and pushed the boundaries of medical science. And with that, out of all things in his life, he does feel blessed.
As he rises, his bare feet sink into the hand-knotted Persian rug, a masterpiece, the subtle blend of muted colors and intricate designs which he acquired from a private collector in Tehran. It was a purchase that Benedict made without Serena's approval, a rebellion. In a house dominated by her, his taste and personality would suffocate if he didn´t sometimes defy her.
The rug and his cat Midnight were two of only a few ways that he found to express himself since they have been married. They are his, his alone. With neither of them will his wife ever be friends, and she doesn't miss an opportunity to make it clear to him, but what he feels then is seen and proud that certain things are out of her control.
Benedict glances at her beside him in the bed. Even in slumber, her beauty is undeniable. It is a carefully curated masterpiece of genetics and meticulous self-care. High cheekbones, and sculpted lips that have been enhanced with subtle injections. Their color contrasts the raven hair that cascades across the pillow like a spilled waterfall of midnight silk, while each strand is perfectly in place.
She is the very image of modern sophistication, and therewith a walking, talking, breathing advertisement for the very magazine that is resting on her nightstand, Havenbrook Heaven. It is Sherry Jones's crown jewel, a bible for aspirational women who seek to climb the ladder of success and social influence. Well, maybe it won't be for much longer, now that she is missing.
Benedict walks over to the walk-in closet. It is larger than your usual studio apartment and organized with military precision, a testament to Serena's relentless pursuit of order. Every suit, every shirt, and every tie, hangs in perfect alignment. She categorizes them by color, fabric, and occasion. This is how obsessed she is with controlling his life. She tries to orchestrate every aspect of their existence together and leave him only a few choices. Well, at least the color of his suit he can choose himself.
Today he feels like a navy blue one, the one that is made from fine Italian wool, which projects authority and competence. He takes it off the hanger. It will feel like his armor during the day ahead. Like a shield against the inevitable barrage of criticism and demands. He knows that it won't truly protect him, but it gives him an illusion of control in a world where he feels increasingly powerless.
Downstairs, the aroma of freshly brewed, ethically sourced Ethiopian Yirgacheffe coffee and artisanal pastries wafts through the air. The symphony of pleasing scents that is designed to awaken his senses is the treat that their housekeeper Maria serves him every morning. She is a kind, quiet woman who has been with them for years, and as he walks downstairs she greets him with a respectful nod and smile. She is a comforting presence in the sterile environment of their home, and reminds him of genuine human connection. Their children, six-year-old Leo and four-year-old Clara, are already sitting at the breakfast table, the light illuminating their faces. It is streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, of course custom-designed to minimize UV exposure.
"Papa!" Leo chirps, his voice is full of adoration.
He is a miniature version of Benedict, with the same inquisitive mind and a nature as gentle as his.
Clara, more like her mother, goes with a reserved, almost perfunctory greeting, "Good morning, Father."
Benedict smiles and the corners of his eyes are crinkling. For the moment it erases the lines of weariness that have started to etch themselves onto his face. He cherishes the fleeting moment of normalcy, before the storm of Serena's presence descends and shatters the fragile peace.
When she enters the room, an almost palpable energy is radiating off her. It is a force that is fueled by ambition and dissatisfaction. Her eyes, however, are holding a glint that makes Benedict's stomach clench. His alarm bells are ringing. Ahead is impending turbulence. With the eyes of a hunter, she is constantly scanning for imperfections, and weakness. For opportunities to assert her dominance.
"Benedict," her sharp voice demands his attention. "You look… like a child in their father's suit. You should go back upstairs and change. Otherwise no one can take you seriously. Maria is going to help you, since you seem to struggle with even the daily dressing routine. Even Leo can pick appropriate clothes for himself nowadays."
The children sense the shift in atmosphere. They can feel the sudden drop in temperature, and fall silent. Leo, who was just coloring a page in his coloring book, lowers his head, and his small shoulders slump. Meanwhile the ever observant Clara watches her mother with an unnerving intensity, while Benedict's smile falters right next to her, and the warmth is fading in his gaze.
When Serena walks over to him, her custom-made Manolo Blahnik heels click on the pristine marble floor. Her steps create a staccato rhythm that echoes through the vast, impersonal space. She runs a manicured finger down the lapel of his jacket, but her touch is cold and clinical.
"It's creased, Benedict. Really, for a man who is supposed to be at the top of his field, you have remarkably little attention to detail. I mean, I´ve known you to be a slob, but you wouldn't want other people noticing it, would you?"
A calculated insult that she has carefully designed to undermine his confidence. The word is dripping with disdain and hanging in the air above him, where it will stay for the day. When he swallowed, the bitter and all too familiar taste of humiliation, self-doubt and resentment rises in his throat. It has been like this for years, and the slow, insidious erosion of his self-esteem has left him with little to go against her.
Her constant barrage of criticism that is subtly laced with contempt has been designed to keep him in his place. He is successful, yes, and admired by his peers, respected by most of his patients, but at home, he is a perpetual disappointment. Because she has made him into that.
"I'll change it," he mumbles, a puppet, the strings of which are pulled and manipulated by her invisible hand.
"That's what I thought," she smiles a smile that is a mere baring of her teeth. "And Benedict," she adds, and her voice drops to a whisper that is meant to just as much emphasize the intimacy of the moment as to highlight his inferiority, "don't forget the charity gala tonight. I expect you to be on your best behavior. Try not to embarrass me."
The threat is unspoken but clear. A failure to meet her standards would have dire consequences.
With her coffee, she picks up her Havenbrook Heaven and flips through the pages, as if she is searching for inspiration or validation, maybe both. "The Evolution of the Modern Woman: Leaving Behind the Patriarchal Shackles,"catches her eye.
"You know, Benedict, Sherry is such an inspiration, I really hope she is okay," she sighs, as her eyes fix on the page, and her voice fills with a reverence when she adds, "She calls people like… well, people like you, MEN like you out on everything that is going wrong in the world because of your insufficiency as leaders and your uselessness in all the areas that matter."
Benedict watches her every move. Weariness seeps into his bones. What makes him weary aren´t the all too familiar digs at his inadequacies as a man, and neither the constant reminders that he would be nothing without her. He had heard it all before, it was a broken record of entitlement that she would play for him. What he is weary about is what he has done to break it.
"You know, Benedict," she continued, her eyes focused entirely on the magazine, "it's thanks to women that men like you still have jobs. We've finally realized that we need you just as little as a bad hangover. We can do everything on our own, no, we are doing everything ourselves. And what do you do?`Not any bit grateful you are, even though you lazy bastards know yourselves that the world would have long stopped turning if it weren't for us."
Oblivious to the undercurrent of hostility that permeates the room, Leo pipes up, "But Papa saves lives, Mommy!"
His innocent statement is meant to defend his father, like an antidote to Serena's venom. But it is too weak. Serena shoots him a cold look that silences him.
"Don't interrupt when a woman is speaking, Leo. And as goes for your father's work. Well, it is… important, I suppose. But in the bigger picture it is nothing compared to the impact that women like Sherry Jones have on society and the time we are living in. They are true saviors."
The comparison is absurd. It is insulting, but Benedict knows better than to challenge her, and his voice stays stuck in his throat, where it will forever be unheard. As Serena continues to absorb messages of female empowerment and male obsolescence, Benedict eats his breakfast in silence, and each bite tastes like ashes in his mouth. He is a prisoner in his own gilded cage, and his success is a mere facade to hide the festering wound that women like Serena have inflicted on him.
The day has barely begun, and like every other day he already feels defeated. His silence following Serena's declaration hangs heavy like a suffocating blanket that is woven with unspoken contempt. The clinking of silverware that was once a comforting domestic rhythm, has long started feeling like the ticking of a doomsday clock that counts down to Benedict's annihilation.
He just had to do something. For his own survival, he had to. And what he has done is their fault, theirs alone. The fault of brain- and purposeless women like his wife who get themselves husbands so they can elevate themselves above them. They make them feel small, so their confidence can rise. A socially accepted behavior nowadays, and that it is, is down to magazines like Sherry´s, glossy harbingers of doom.
Its pages rustle between Serena´s fingers. Each page she turns is an irritating reminder of the poison that has been seeping into their lives, and corroded its foundations. With each article that called for female dominance, Benedict felt himself shrinking, and his sense of self-worth chipped away like marble under a sculptor's chisel.
He forces down the last bite of his eggs. The texture is strangely offensive, and the toast, like cardboard in his mouth. His plate resembles a battlefield that is littered with the casualties of war. When he mumbles a hollow goodbye to Leo, his fleeting, manufactured smile feels out of place on his face. To Serena, he gives a simple nod, because for anything more than that the chasm between them is too wide, and the air too thick with unspoken accusations. Any attempt at conversation would be met with a condescending lecture on his societal obsolescence.
As he walks toward the door, a familiar sting of resentment blossoms in his chest, and leaves a dull ache that has become his constant companion. He yearns for a moment's respite, and a brief escape from the suffocating atmosphere of relentless pressure. In the abandoned factory at the harbor he has found a place to escape to. He has found a way to deal with the pain he is feeling.
Frankly, he has found a way to survive her attempts to crush him. But it doesn't fix things in the long run. It won´t give him what he is so desperately looking for. The days before Serena's "awakening," those before the constant barrage of feminist dogma had transformed her into an unrecognizable, hostile bitch. He wanted the woman back who he had fallen in love with, the woman who had laughed easily, who had valued his opinions, and who had seen him as an equal.
They do not anymore, women like her, and women like Sherry. Modern feminism misses the point of equal rights, it wants to eliminate man entirely. Shouldn't a feminist fully embrace herself for being feminine? Shouldn't a feminist celebrate all the things that women, since they are women, are naturally better at than a man would ever be, instead of just denying that men have such areas as well?
Benedict doesn't know how to fight it anymore. He doesn't know any other way to fight it than escaping to the harbour and feeling powerful for an hour or two. The feeling of helplessness, and the suffocating weight of his powerlessness, at home has brought him here just as much as the cascade of sharp and painful memories that would come over him every time his wife would make him feel worthless. Memories of his childhood, each of which is a carefully planted seed of resentment. The most vivid, the most searing, goes back to when he was seven years old.
He was huddled in the corner of the sprawling family estate, trembling with fear and shame. His mother was a formidable woman with a piercing gaze and an unshakeable belief in her own superiority. With her two daughters, his older sisters Elara and Vivian, she stood before him, and the three of them had terrifying masks of smug disdain on their faces.
He had broken a delicate porcelain vase that had been passed down through generations. It was an accident, not more than a clumsy misstep during a game of hide-and-seek. But in the eyes of his mother and sisters, it was an act of deliberate defiance, and a testament to his inherent worthlessness.
"Benedict," his mother's cold voice was tearing through him like a cutting blade, "will you ever be more than a disappointment? I should have never had you. With you I brought a weak, clumsy, and utterly useless waste of space into the world. You will never measure up to your sisters."
She spoke the words with such icy precision that they pierced his heart, and left a wound that would never fully heal. What made it worse were Elara and Vivian, then teenagers, who echoed their mother's sentiments with a cruel laughter. They delighted in his discomfort, and revelled in his vulnerability by mocking his tears, and taunting his stuttering apologies. They made him feel utterly insignificant with words that were, like acid, burning away his self-esteem to leave him raw.
"He's just a burden, Mother," Elara sneered, her eyes glinting with amusement. "He'll never be anything more than a loser, a problem that will drag us down with him."
"He's lucky we even tolerate his presence," Vivian chimed in. "He should be grateful for it, but we never even hear a thank you from him. Maybe you should put him up for adoption. Then he would burden someone else."
The memory lingers, and his festering wound pulses with a new intensity whenever Serena diminishes him. In his entire life he has only ever been devalued by the women who were supposed to love and protect him.
His sisters and mother have foreshadowed the life he is living now, a life where his voice is being silenced, his accomplishments are being belittled, and his very existence is becoming a source of simmering resentment. But something has shifted within him, after years of suppressed anger, and decades of internalized humiliation.
He is no longer willing to be a victim. Now he is something far more dangerous. The past injustices no longer evoke fear in him, but cold, and burning rage. From a timid, apologetic boy who would cower in the corner, he has turned into something else entirely. All the women who have ever diminished him, need to understand that he is not their victim and not in their control. And they will eventually when they hear about Sherry Jones. He steps out of the house that is his but doesn't feel like it is and into the harsh sunlight, with only one thought on his mind.
Today is the day that Sherry is going to die.