Cursed—
The knock on the door interrupted my racing thoughts. “May I come in?” Francis’ muffled voice carried through the door.
I swallowed, staring at my bleeding palms.
“Cordelia?” The door opened ajar.
“Have you reached a plan?” I stood from the bed, caring not how indecent my attire must have looked.
“Yes.” Francis said, walking towards my bathchamber.
“Well, what is it?” I followed after him, wiping the blood against my trousers.
“We will talk tomorrow.” He set a goblet of crimson down on the small table by the bathtub, his hands reaching for the water basket attached to the fireplace.
“What are you doing?” I eyed the crimson goblet; my throat burned with anticipation. “I don’t wish for blood."
“I’m drawing you a bath.” He merely stated, filling the tub with water.
“I need no bath.” I rolled my eyes. “Tell me what the plan is,” I demanded.
“Forgive my boldness, Cordelia, but you do.” He looked me up and down.
“You are wasting my time.” I seethed.
“Bathe, feed, and then we’ll talk.” Francis finished up with different oils and petals that hid in the drawer by the sink. “I need you to look presentable for the plan to work.” Francis smirked.
“Your rudeness knows no limit.” I shook my head, though warm water truly tempted my sore flesh. The blood teased my restraint.
“Would you rather me pity you?” Francis’ eyebrows rose. “We will talk of the plan tomorrow, I have some important business to attend to before then.” Francis laid the flint he'd used atop my drawer before charging towards the door.
“What business can be more important than—” The door to my room closed shut.
Francis had left before I could finish my question. He’d left me all alone with a bath and a bewitching drink that my hands refused to empty onto the floor.
A sudden sheen layer of sweat covered every inch of my body; a quiet shriek scratched the insides of my throat. My stomach turned upside down as I bent, trying to keep my insides in place.
My eyes burned into the blood as my hands brought it to my lips. It was a lost battle I had no strength to fight: and what for? Were it to happen now or later, eventually my sickness would make me so ill I would be forced to feed. This way I could pretend I was in control.
A small drop slipped into my throat. I wished I could hate the drink for being a necessity to my survival, I wished I could hate Francis for bringing it to me, tempting me against my will. In the end I could only hate myself.
Another drop reached my throat; the corners of my eyes filled with tears I refused to let free. Then another drop. And one more. And one—
My hands trembled when I forced the goblet away from my lips, provoking the rage of the beast. My body shook when I emptied the rest into the fire, ignoring the beast's demands.
My head spun from fatigue, yet I paid it no attention as I sat in the bath that I certainly did not deserve: my skin pleased in the warmth of it.
A week of starvation compromised by a few drops of the treacherous drink. A week of agonizing pain draining into the abyss as the fog in my mind cleared slightly.
How could I ensure anyone’s safety when I was so easily controlled? My ill restraint had already killed one, and I couldn’t even last for longer than a week in her memory.
Worthless.
Dangerous.
Pathetic.
My eyes locked on the candle Francis had lit by the bathtub, enchanted by it. Everything around me blurred as I watched the flame dance in the darkness, inviting me to join.
