Page 32 of The Mad Don
I draw the sheet up to my chest, and I look at the room.
There is a note pinned to the corner of the vanity mirror. I do not get out of bed for it. I sit, I look at the room, and I let my body catch up to what happened last night — his mouth and his finger and what they did to me.
I let him, and I enjoyed it. I wanted more.
I let him do all of it. I told myself I would not, and then I did.
Stop! Not now!I scold myself.
I push the sheet back, and I get out of bed. My legs don’t give way as I go to the mirror and pull the note from the corner.
The handwriting is clean and unhurried.
Get some rest. I’ll see you later.
I read it twice before I crumple it in my fist and drop it on the vanity.
The door opens, and a maid steps in with a tray. She does not look at me or speak. She enters the room, sets the tray on the small table near the window, and turns to leave.
“What is this?”
She pauses at the door. “Breakfast.”
“I don’t want it.”
She does not answer, but she closes the door behind her. I stand in the middle of the room looking at the tray sitting on the table.
I do not want to eat anything that comes out of this kitchen that I haven’t made myself. I have cooked everything that goes into my mouth myself since the bowl of poison from two days ago. I haven’t forgotten any of it.
I go to the table. I look at the food. It’s bread, eggs, fruit, a small jug of coffee, and water in a covered jug beside it.
I sit, and I eat.
Would he poison me after last night?
I eat carefully and slowly. I drink the water before I touch the coffee. By the time I am done, the shaking I didn’t realize I was doing at first is gone, and I can think again.
I pull on the soft pants folded at the foot of the bed because the t-shirt by itself is not enough to walk in this house, and I go to the door. The corridor is empty.
I step out, but I do not have a plan. I am not sure I am supposed to be out of the room, but the door was unlocked, and no one stopped me. I am not going to spend the day in the bed where he put me last night.
I take the corridor slowly, and for the first time, I look at the house properly for the first time. The walls are pale stone, and the light comes in through tall windows. The house is enormous and quiet, and there is no one in any of the rooms I pass.
I am at the end of the second corridor when I hear a soft, faint voice.
“Please.”
I stop.
“Please, someone. Anyone.”
It is coming from a door three paces ahead of me. The door is ajar, and the room beyond it is dark, the curtains drawn against the morning.
I draw closer, and my hand drifts toward the pin in my hair on instinct as I remember I do not have a gun.
“Who is there?” I call out as I step closer.
A weak cough comes, and the voice follows. “I’m — I’m here. By the window. Please.”
