“Yes?” I ask, my voice hard.
She takes a step back, her eyebrows raised.
“I just… Damien asked…”
Oh. So that’s what’s going on. Damien washed his hands of me, and now he’s sending others to do his dirty work.
“What did he ask?” I say coldly.
“He asked… well, the truth is, he ordered… he ordered me to dress your wounds.”
I scramble backward, clutching the sheets around me like a shield.
“No.”
“He ordered me to,” she insists, looking close to tears. “I have to follow his instructions.”
“I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want anyone to touch me. Please go.”
“Damien will be very angry.”
“Damien won’t know. How could he possibly know?”
“I don’t know,” she stammers. “Maybe he’ll see it on the camera. Maybe he’ll come check.”
“I don’t think Damien is watching. And I don’t believe he’ll ever come see me again.” My heart sinks, because I feel the truth of those words.
She hesitates again, then nods.
“I set the tray on the table,” she repeats. “Soup, chicken, green beans, cake.”
I pass a hand over my eyes, feeling like I’m experiencing déjà-vu. “I know. You told me.”
Please go back to being quiet.
“The… the dessert is very good today,” she mutters, before turning around and leaving.
I watch the door close quietly behind her. Then I stand up.
I feel a tiny prick under my arm, and remember the nail scissors pressed there. Time to find a better weapon, because I’m getting out of here, even if I have to kill everyone in Devil Tower.
I go to the kitchen, fumble in the drawers, discarding one knife after another. Too bulky, not sharp enough. None of them really fit the requirements.
Then I spot a bottle opener. It’s actually part of an army knife set, with a cork screw, scissors, and a sharp little knife that seems made for cutting slices of salami on a picnic.
Or human skin.
I head to the shower, staying under the scalding hot water for a long time. Then I choose a dress with pockets, and slip the army knife inside. It makes me feel just a bit safer.
My stomach growls then. The adrenaline has made me hungry.
I remember the tray and sit down at the table, surprised the quiet woman hasn’t come fetch it yet. She usually retrieves it after twenty or thirty minutes, but it must have stayed out here for an hour at least.
I remember her dessert recommendation. I stare at the cake, confused. It doesn’t look better or worse than usual. I’m not really a fan of cake, or of sweet things in general.
I begin to eat ravenously. I used to eat for Damien, and before he bid me in a game of poker and belted me in front of his friends, I had thought of taunting him by refusing food. Now, though, I’m sure he’s not looking at the cameras. He doesn’t care.
But for once, I’m starving. Maybe I’m even more messed up than Damien. Hunger for blood makes me hunger for food too.
