I whimper as Agatha dips a piece of wool that looks like sandpaper in the bucket of soap, water, and God knows what else…
“But maybe she’s right, old woman.” Niklaus’s eyes flicker to me with only the briefest flash of uncertainty beneath that deep water in his irises. His jaw flexes. “My mouth needs cleansing. You’d blush if only you knew where my tongue has been.”
Agatha hisses as if his words and the visual that is entering her mind has burned her.
Is he…is he trying to take the heat off me?
“Shut it, boy!” The foul old woman pries my teeth apart with the metal tool. “I’ll deal with you later.”
Jesus, deal with him now! Please!
Despite my greatest efforts, my jaw is stretched wide open. The force is beyond my own strength without the threat of breaking a tooth. I even try to thrash my head back and forth, but Agatha has put a strap over my forehead to hold me in place.
“I usually use this device for force-feedings,” she muses, wringing out the wool sponge. “But it does what I need it to for this.”
I pinch my eyes shut and squeal in distress, unwilling to watch those gray, frail hands shove anything into my mouth. The odor is acrid and sharp, like wound antiseptic gone sour or a tin bucket left in the sun. The scraping motion starts on my inner cheek with the wet, scratchy material scrubbing the soft tissue raw. My tongue darts around to avoid the putrid taste of soap and old coins soaked in vinegar. A chemical. A chalky paste.
It’s as gross as having your mouth washed out with soap can be—
Wait.
The pins and needles of the rough gravelly sponge sting, yes. But it changes so swiftly, biting into my gums and tongue with a wild, mind-numbingly painful burn. It’s not heat, but a shriveling, tightening, stabbing sensation on the most sensitive flesh I have. It’s as if each taste bud is curling in on itself, retreating from whatever chemical is doing this to me. My teeth ache and grind against the metal clamp, causing my nerves to scream.
“Here we are,” Agatha grumbles, stretching the corners of my mouth wider.
And it hits like I’ve been lit on fire without a flame.
The moisture in my mouth evaporates in seconds. My tongue, cheeks, uvula, and throat stick together as if all my mucosal membranes have shrunken and died. My saliva glands simply stop producing.
I scream and gargle the chalky soap.
That deadly sponge drags across my tongue like it’s trying to steal my voice.
“You feel that, girl?”
Tears well from my eyes even though I squeeze them shut, blocking out the image of Agatha’s scornful, craggy face.
“That’s the devil’s words in your mouth dying one by one.”
I swallow involuntarily, immediately seizing as the soap and chemicals slither down my throat. My body bucks against the mattress, choking and coughing up nothing. I’m going to die. I’m going to choke. My throat is closing. I’m dying.
Krimson! Please! Can you hear me? Help!
Niklaus
That fucking sponge is drawingblood.
My shoulders sear with pain as I flex my back in anticipation. How long is this going to last? How much longer can she stand this?
Sapphire whimpers and chokes. The muscles on her stomach coil tightly together. Every time Agatha scrubs at a new spot in her mouth, that sponge is like a live wire. It sends volts of agony through her body that are palpable to everyone in this room.
She’s had enough.
Agatha pauses to dip the wool sponge back into the bucket of whatever that shit is, and Sapphire looks at me once. A spark of eye contact. Bloodshot corneas. Swollen, black and blue skin. She’s in bad shape. That quick glance isn’t a pleading look for help or mercy, it’s a mere acknowledgment that I’m seeing her as low as it can get.
I almost call out her name.
But my teeth are wired shut.
