And I'm so tired of cages.
The sobs wrack through me until my throat is raw and my eyes burn and there's nothing left but empty exhaustion.
I don't know how long I sit there on the floor.
Long enough that the sun shifts.
Long enough that the light coming through the window changes from morning to afternoon.
Eventually, the tears stop.
Eventually, I'm just empty.
I drag myself up. Go to the bathroom. Look at myself in the mirror.
My eyes are red and swollen. My face is blotchy. My hair is a mess.
I look like I've been broken.
Maybe I have been.
I turn on the shower. Let it run hot. Strip off my clothes and step under the spray.
The water pounds against my skin. Too hot. Almost painful.
Good.
I want to feel something other than this hollow despair.
I wash my hair with the expensive shampoo. Use the expensive soap. Watch the water swirl down the drain.
At the Sanctuary, we had five minutes for showers. Cold water. A single bar of lye soap shared among ten girls.
Here, I can stand under hot water for as long as I want.
Can use products that smell like flowers and cost more than most families spend on groceries in a month.
Here, I have everything I could possibly need.
Except the one thing that matters.
I get out. Dry off. Dress in clean clothes from the closet I never asked for.
Go to the bed and lie down.
Stare at the ceiling.
I'm not going to cry again. I won't give Vaughn that. Won't give this place that.
I cried. I broke. I let myself feel the weight of everything I've lost.
But I'm done now.
I'm done being the girl who cries.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to planning.
Back to looking for weaknesses.
