Wonderland of Twisted Desire

A Short Story - Wonderland of Twisted Desire

Penulis: Grace Prikasih – UKI

In halls of white where secrets sleep,
The brightest smiles the darkest keep.
A gentle hand, a caring face,
Conceals the rot in purest grace.

The clock strikes twelve, the lights decay,
The dream turns red, the world won’t stay.
Beneath the books, beneath the lies,
A heart still beats, though silence cries.

So welcome, child, to this delight —
Where love is wrong, and wrong feels right.
In twisted halls where angels fell,
He waits for you.

In this Twisted Wonderland of Hell.

The Teacher Who Saw Her

Mira had always been the kind of girl no one noticed.
Her voice was soft, her steps quieter still — like a shadow moving through the noise of Yamikumo Academy. The laughter of others passed through her like wind through glass. At lunch, she sat alone beneath the window in the library, surrounded by books no one borrowed, by stories that never called her name.

If she disappeared one morning, Mira often thought, no one would remember where she used to sit.

Then came Mr. Ren.

He was everything she wasn’t — warm, confident, adored. His smile seemed to brighten even the coldest corners of the classroom. Girls giggled when he passed by; even the male teachers spoke to him with admiration. He taught literature like a song — soft, lyrical, full of emotion.

And one day, he noticed her.

“Mira,” he said, as she turned in her essay. “You write beautifully. You have… a beautiful soul.”

The words lingered.
No one had ever said something like that to her before.

From then on, he began to talk to her more often. Complimenting her handwriting. Asking if she’d eaten. Praising her quietness as grace, not weakness. It was gentle, kind — and for the first time, Mira felt seen.

But slowly, something began to change.

He remembered too much — small details she was sure she never told him. Her favorite book. The way she tied her hair when nervous. Even the exact path she took home.

Sometimes, she’d glance up from her desk and find his eyes already on her — not in the way a teacher looks at a student, but as if he were memorizing her.

He’d appear wherever she went: at the library door, at the vending machine, in the rain outside the gate. Always smiling, always asking softly, “Are you alright, Mira?”

At first, she told herself it was coincidence.
Then she began to feel it — that strange, invisible thread tightening around her life.

And for the first time, she wondered if being seen might be worse than being invisible.

The Rumors and the Smile

It began with whispers.
Soft, poisonous things that slithered between lockers and notebooks.

“She’s trying to get close to Mr. Ren.”
“Did you see the way he looks at her?”
“Maybe she wants attention.”

At first, Mira tried to ignore them. Whispers always found someone new, she told herself. But this time, they never stopped — they only grew louder. Her classmates began to glance at her with smirks or disgust. Even the teachers seemed to look twice when she passed by.

And Mr. Ren… didn’t deny it.

He still smiled at her in class. Still called her name gently during attendance, his tone lingering just a little too long. Sometimes, he would ask her to stay after everyone else had gone.

“To help grade papers,” he’d say.
“To discuss your future.”
“To talk about life.”

The door would close behind them. The world outside would fall silent. And in that silence, Mira felt trapped beneath the warmth of his gaze — a warmth that felt like light, but burned too deep.

He’d lean close, his voice soft but heavy.
“You shouldn’t listen to what they say, Mira. They’re jealous. They don’t understand you like I do.”

She’d nod, too afraid to argue, too confused to breathe.

When she finally gathered the courage to speak to the school counselor, she found the office empty. The doorplate still bore the name Ms. Natsume, but the desk was cleared, the room abandoned.

“She resigned,” one teacher said casually. “Something about… stress.”

Mira tried to find her friends, but they avoided her eyes. When she passed them in the hallway, they whispered things she never said — as if her voice had been stolen and used against her.

Everywhere she turned, the air felt heavier. The walls seemed to lean closer, listening. And always, somewhere nearby, she could feel him watching.

Mr. Ren’s smile never changed.
It was still gentle, still perfect — and yet, behind it, Mira saw something vast and cold.

A smile that said:
“You belong to me now.”

The Locked Night

The rain came without warning.
It lashed against the windows, rattling the old panes of Yamikumo Academy like ghostly hands. The campus was supposed to be empty — after-hours, silent. Yet a single light still glowed from the literature room.

Mira stood there, trembling.
Mr. Ren’s desk drawer had been left slightly open. Inside, beneath neatly stacked papers, something caught her eye — a leather-bound notebook. Her name was scrawled across the cover in elegant black ink.

She hesitated… then opened it.

Pages and pages of her name. Written over and over, pressed so hard the paper tore in places. Letters addressed to her — confessions, vows, pleas.

“You belong to me.”
“No one else will understand you.”
“You are my light in this rotten place.”

And then the drawings — her face, her uniform, her hair, her smile.
Some crossed out, rewritten, drawn again. Each one darker than the last.

Her breath caught. The air around her felt too thick to breathe. She stumbled back, heart pounding, the notebook falling from her hands.

That’s when she heard it — his voice, soft and low behind her.
“Mira.”

She froze.
Mr. Ren stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his coat, eyes glinting in the dim light.

“You shouldn’t look at things that aren’t yours,” he said, almost gently. His smile was the same as always — calm, perfect — but his eyes were hollow, feverish.

“I thought you trusted me.”

She ran.

The hallways blurred past her — lockers, shadows, classrooms — all melting into one endless corridor. But no matter which way she turned, every door was locked. Every window sealed.

The lights flickered, then died.

Somewhere in the darkness, his footsteps echoed. Slow. Unhurried.
“Mira,” his voice came again, echoing through the halls. “You can’t leave. You don’t need to. Everything you need is right here.”

She pushed against a door, nails scraping, breath ragged.
The sound of rain faded, replaced by the hum of the fluorescent lights sputtering back to life — faint, sickly white.

Then — silence.

The scene that followed was never spoken of. The hallway lights burned out one by one. A scream echoed, but only once — sharp, then swallowed by thunder.

The next morning, the rain had stopped. The classrooms gleamed as if nothing had happened.

But on the literature teacher’s desk lay an open notebook — and one final line written in new, wet ink:

“She’s finally mine.”

The Voice That Stayed

Weeks later, Mira transferred schools.

Her new classroom was smaller, quieter. The students were polite, the teachers gentle. Everything should have felt safe. Yet safety no longer had meaning to her.

She smiled when spoken to, answered when called, but her voice was always a little distant — as if she were speaking through glass. At night, she woke up drenched in sweat, certain someone had whispered her name.

Sometimes she’d hear him — not loud, not screaming, but soft, tender, as he always was.

“Mira… did you miss me?”
“You look lonely without me.”

She’d cover her ears, but the voice came from inside — from somewhere the world couldn’t reach.

One morning, when she opened her new locker, a folded note fell out. The paper was damp, the handwriting elegant, familiar.

You won’t escape, Mira.
We’ll be together… f o r e v e r.

Her fingers trembled as she dropped it, heart hammering, breath stuck in her throat. Around her, the hallway buzzed with laughter, footsteps, and life — but none of it reached her.

Through the reflection of the locker door, she thought she saw someone standing behind her — a tall figure in a teacher’s coat, smiling faintly.

When she turned, there was no one.

But the air still smelled faintly of chalk, and roses, and rain.

The Mirror That Watches Back

The evening sky outside was bruised violet, streaked with rain that never seemed to end.
The corridors were empty, lined with flickering lights that hummed softly above her head.

Mira walked alone, clutching a book tight against her chest — an old literature volume once gifted by him. The weight of it felt heavier than it should, as if the pages carried whispers she couldn’t unhear.

Her footsteps echoed, a hollow rhythm against the polished floor. With every step, her reflection followed — faint in the darkened windows beside her.

She stopped.

Something about it felt wrong.

In the glass, the girl’s posture looked the same — but the face wasn’t hers.
The eyes were too sharp, too knowing. The smile too soft… and too familiar.

Mr. Ren.

He stood in her reflection, calm as ever, his gaze fixed on her with the same hunger that once froze her blood.
Cold, dead, and still so full of love.

Mira’s eyes widen, fingers tightened around the book. The lights above flickered again — once, twice — and when they steadied, the reflection was smiling wider. And she felt arms enveloping her. Trapping her in an embrace. His voice dark and possessive as he whispers in her ear, so close his breath is tickling it.

“You see?”
“You were never alone.”

The hallway swallowed her quiet sob and silent scream as the window went dark, leaving only the book, and an open page with a single word.

M I N E.

Love was a mirror, and I looked too long,
Until my face forgot its song.
The lines blurred thin, the voice grew near,
And what was mine began to disappear.
He called it love — I called it pain,
Yet still I danced inside his chain.
The mind will break before it dies,
When warmth wears madness as disguise.
Now two hearts beat where one should be,
Bound by a ghost that will not flee.
And in the glass, I sometimes find,
His eyes — inside my fractured mind.