Harsh knocking on the door yanked me out of my own self-pity and misery. Holding my breath, I pressed my ear towards the cold wooden door. Biting my lip, I cussed; I had let my walls down. I let that old lady under my skin and let my walls down. My jaws tightened, and I could feel the taste of blood spread like warm, forbidden honey in my mouth. I didn't even hear him return; I always listened to their steps. I always knew who it was by just listening to their steps while walking the long corridor to my room at the end.
My heart almost choked me as it tried to jump out of my body through my throat; three new knocks spiked my anxiety. It sounded angry; can knocking sound angry? Four new knocks disrupted me from dwelling on that strange line of thought. They are angry! Harder, quicker, rushed, maybe? Irritated? I could not control my thoughts, and they spun out of control. I was creating scenarios based on the sound of a hand knocking on a wooden door.
"Yes?"
My voice scraped against the inside of my throat. It was hoars and cracking. I heaved for air and gasped like a desperate fish, but my heart was out of control. That strange little organ, so essential to keep me alive, slammed against my ribs, throbbing in my throat, making breathing painfully hard. Fear. All I felt was fear; all I knew and remembered was fear. For what? At this place, in this moment, it did not matter. It was overwhelming, all-consuming, and in control- fear of fear itself.
"A Breach of regulation 5, section 2, will be added to your sheet. You have 10 minutes to dry your hair and cover yourself before the new dress is delivered. The madam requests no makeup, hair down, no underwear, or added scents. That includes lotions, perfumes, deodorants, and soaps. Also, clean teeth and tongue, and no red, puffy eyes. No cracked lips or dried blood in your hair or skin. You now have nine minutes."
Before I knew it, I ripped my gown off and threw it on the bathroom floors. I didn't even wait for his steps to fade down the hall. I didn't think, and I didn't act. My body, my self-defense mechanism, or whatever it was making me move on my own rushed me. It pushed me forward and pressed me through the motions and actions required.
My skin burned on my neck and hands, and the warm water felt like acid on my skin as I rushed through the shower. I pluck pieces of dried blood out of my hair in the neck. I scrubbed the old blood off my skin. I almost scraped my skin off with the little sponge covered with the clear, unscented soap. But I only noted it from the back of my mind. My eyes were glued to the hideously yellow and brown bathroom wall and spaced out. Zooned out, only existing here onside a body shielding me from reality.
Turning off the water and stepping out of the shower, I paused for a second. I looked around, seeing it all with new eyes. I wanted to crawl back into the shower, step back into that foggy and hazed state again, and stay there. That the madam delivered demands and expectations through the guards or other staff was not unusual- however, no underwear, no scents, and clean teeth. I've never heard any of them before. My hands rubbed and squished the water out of my hair with a towel, and I listened to the little voice in my head. It told me to be scared, warned me to be on high alert, and that this was not a regular request. The old woman had something up her sleeve, some evil plans plated ahead of me, and I was expected to walk straight through it without question.
She will kill me. I am out of time. No. No, that can't be it. He saved me, the lord even Madam Betty is afraid of. I have to be important. They need me, and this last thought flipped a switch in my mind. I'm important! They need me! This is my leverage! And a forbidden spike of warmth smoldered inside of me, hope. A way out of this hell hole, away from that bitter, pure evil old witch.
A clear click from my door called me out of the bathroom. I knew this routine; it had been beaten into me over the last week. I quickly wrapped an extra towel around me as I continued to dry my hair, walking out into the room. The slender, quiet, and constantly judging boy-man dressing me never knocked. He walked right in like he owned it and looked me up and down with newly found disdain each time. So, I had learned to ignore him, even entertain myself by bothering him without breaking character. He was an open book, and he could not hold back his reactions or thoughts for his life. But I knew I needed to be smart about it; he was the Madam's favorite. If he told Madam Betty I was a spider in disguise, she would believe him.
With my head tilted forward and my hair hanging, drying it, I walked right to the chair and slumped down before I lifted my gaze and removed the towel. My eyes met his in the mirror, and I froze. I forgot how to breathe, dropped my wet towel, and clutched the one around me as I felt the color of my face wash away. Despite the shock, despite the ice-cold fear sinking its claws into me, my heart fluttered like gentle, soft butterfly wings behind my rib cage.
I never saw his face, and I never really met him, but I recognized his clothes- his white shimmering shirt, his black leather vest, and his hair-the lord who saved me. I wanted to smile; the corner of my lip tugged and twitched, but I held it back. I didn't dare. The smoldering, tiny spot of hope in my chest boosted, and claimed place and respect. Our eyes locked in the reflection of the mirror. He didn't smile, but he didn't look angry either. After staring at each other for a torturous amount of time, the smile won. The hope that ignited inside of me reminded me I was important, they needed me, and I had leverage forced itself out. It showed itself in a smile that slowly grew on my face.
This new, strange glimmer of light in my never-ending darkness reclaimed my old confidence. Taking a slow, deep breath, I opened my mouth to speak. I want to talk directly to the man who saved me and helped me, the man who might believe I am important. I wanted to be bold, I wanted to show him the real me, and I wanted him to like the real me.
"Your hair is still wet!?"
The boy-man's high-pitched voice interrupted me. He marched into the room with his arms filled with colorful fabrics.
"Suite yourself! Down on the bed, on your stomach, and remove your towel. Lord Asher will inspect the damages and deliver your punishment."