Page 7 of Condemned By Pain
“Open the door, Mama.”
“Mama’s sorry.” She starts crying again. “Mama’s not strong enough. She couldn’t protect you.”
I press my palm flat against the door.
“It doesn’t hurt, Mama. Please don’t cry.” I hate when she cries, so I lie.
It was painful. How could having your skin peeled off not hurt?
She cried the whole night. She was in pain too—they hadn’t stopped at my skin. They did worse to her. And all of it happened because of one man. Alexander Bennett. Whose daughter’s sobs now fill my bathroom, tugging at something I thought long frozen.
I step back from the door and leave my room.
She entered without knocking, walked straight to the bathroom without glancing around. But I watched her the whole time from the couch in the corner.
I enter my study and, after settling into my chair, send an announcement through the servants’ system.
“Send Nivi to my study.”
Elowen
After crying myself raw, I feel better. My fighting spirit returns.I won’t run next time. I’ll beat the shit out of those bitches.With that resolution steel-forged, I rise from under the shower, and a new problem hits me. I’ve soaked my only pair of undergarments.
I look around. I hadn’t noticed before, rushing in blindly, but now I see clearly—this is a man’s bathroom. Men’s products line the shelves—shampoos, soaps, a razor. Towels are placed on a glass shelf, and a bathrobe hangs on the hook.
I remove my bra and panties, wash them in the sink, then roll them in a towel. I reach for another towel and bring it to my nose.Cedarwood. After making sure it’s clean, I wrap it around myself. I drape the last towel over my head, then shrug into the bathrobe.
I hope whoever owns this room won’t complain about his missing towels and bathrobe.
I open the door slowly and peek outside. The room is dimly lit in white light. The air isn’t cold, but the room itself feels cold, maybe because of the dark walls and the charcoal curtains. The bed is low and simple, plain gray headboard, black sheets. In the far dark corner, something hunches—a couch, maybe.
I don’t know what kind of person would find sleeping in this room restful. Even ghosts would feel uneasy in a space this dark and heavy.
I slip out of the room and hurry across the hall. It’s directly opposite mine, which is good. No one will see me scurrying around wrapped in stolen towels and a bathrobe.
I enter my room and lock the door behind me. I spread the towel with my undergarments on the floor, then lay my bra and panties flat on top. I stare at them for a moment. The floor is warm but I doubt it will do much to dry them. Maybe by morning they’ll be dry.
I turn to the dresses still heaped on the floor. I pick one up and find cuts in it, just like the one I was wearing.
Shit.I left that dress in his bathroom. What now? Should I go back and bring it here, or let it stay there?I don’t know the consequences of either, so I choose the second.
I lift the next dress. It’s no better. Then another. And the last one. I toss them back onto the floor. This is absurd. Every single one has cuts in places that without panties would expose me, front or back—which is a hard no. Nothing will make me wear these dresses like that.
I pull the towel from my hair and run my fingers through the wet strands. They’ll be a mess without a comb.
I sit on the floor, on the heap of rags they expect me to wear. I cup my dry face that desperately needs moisturizer.
I won’t cry again. At least not for moisturizer and a comb and clothes and food and a bed.
My attempt at optimism cracks on a sob. Stupid tears start falling again.
It’s night outside, which means I was kidnapped yesterday, and my family still hasn’t found me. Another reason to feel pessimistic and cry more.
No, Wen, don’t do this. Don’t spiral thinking the worst. No one finds a kidnapped person in a day. They’ll find me soon.
My stomach growls. I’m hungry. And thirsty.
I take a deep breath and get up, wiping the tears harshly from my cheeks. I stride to the door, open it, and step outside.
