Page 5 of Blade
The best use of my time is to clean up the dishes, and it’s something I am well-rehearsed in doing. I was Angela’s slave after all, and cleaning duties played a large part in that—along with other things.
I shiver as the months of abuse remind me of what I did to keep a roof over my head. I am sickened by what that woman made me do and ashamed. So ashamed.
My lip trembles as I soap the dishes, and I tug it between my teeth in a desperate attempt to hold it together.
My mind wanders to the dark place I have never been safe from, and images play on repeat like a flickering old movie of what I did to survive.
Tears flow down my cheeks, but I don’t register them. The dish in my hands must have been there for ten minutes already, but I didn’t note the time. My skin prickles and my heart races as anxiety mixes with shame, and I’m fast concluding that it would have been better if I had died that night.
A low rumble in my ear jolts me back from oblivion, and a soft, husky voice whispers, “Put the dish down, darlin’.”
It drops into the sink, my hands red from the scalding water, and Blade says softly, “I’m going to help you to the couch. That’s all. You’re safe with me.”
I nod, not really understanding what he means, and yet I allow him to guide me over to the small couch set before a log burner.
I perch on the edge, my mind a mess, and he squats down in front of me, staring with concern into my eyes.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
What does he mean?
I peer up at him and note his concern, and swallow hard. What just happened?
He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close. So close, the warmth from his skin dusts against mine.
He appears concerned, and his gaze travels down to my hands that are twisting in my lap, and it’s only then I experience the bite of the scald.
My hands are red, and they hurt like hell, and he says gently, “Let me help fix your hands.”
“I’m sorry.”
My voice shakes, and as the pain kicks in, I bite hard on my lip, the faint trace of blood a metallic taste I’ve grown accustomed to.
“Sorry?”
He frowns, and I note his displeasure.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Delilah.”
“Delilah?”
For some reason, I don’t recognize the name, and I note the change in his expression.
“What is your name, darlin’?”
His words are said carefully, as if every syllable must be explained, and I feel like a fool as I whisper, “I don’t know.”
He says nothing and moves, the wooden floorboards creaking under his weight, and my mind races as he busies himself at the sink I just vacated.
My hands are burning up, and yet I don’t react to the pain. I’m too numb for that, and I have been for some time.
He returns with a bowl of cool water and a soft cloth and says carefully, “Place your hands in the bowl; it will take out some of the burn.”
“I’m sorry.”
I can’t appear to say anything else and he grunts, “I will tell you this once, darlin’. Don’t apologize for anything, not to me. I’m not interested in hearing it, but I am interested in hearing why you don’t know your own name.”
“Because it never was.”
