18. Maimed Knight
Sapphire
I am in hell, I’msure of it.
This is not a basement. It is not a pit of darkness under the house of my uncle. This has to be hell. The fiery cavity of misery and incomprehensible pain. My mouth is swollen, battered, throbbing, raw, and caked in sores and an all-consuming sting that won’t go away.
I can’t stop thinking about it.
Even if I fall asleep and achieve the sweet relief of a dream, the agony seems to permeate the walls of my mind, poisoning that beautiful hallucination I get to drown myself in to escape my own body. It sours every detail, every fictional sound and image I create.
I wake moments after drifting off. The reality slams into me like an uncontrollable, derailing train. I inhale sharply through my nose, only to find that my sinuses are inflamed and closed off.
Breathing through my parted lips is the damning equivalent of licking a hot fire poker then gargling a pile of splinters as a palate cleanser.
I am in hell.
I am in hell.
I am in hell.
“I think it’s potassium alum.” Niklaus takes a breath as if he’s been holding it. “And lye soap. Maybe salt.”
I lie perfectly still. If I move my head, I can feel the movement against the sores in my mouth like a thousand tiny daggers running me through. If he thinks I’m going to respond, he’s as stupid as he is ugly.
“Whatever she washed your mouth with,” he adds in a low, deep voice.
Why the fuck do you care?
“I read that Demechnef used that combination in training and conditioning subjects to obey without question or talking back.”
Hmm. What a wholesome family you come from. Read that in one of Daddy’s diaries, did we?
Niklaus shockingly reads my mind. “Yes. I realize you’re making many comments about my father in your head. I realize how fucked it is now…seeing it happen in person.”
Is that guilt I hear?
“But you brought this on yourself. Running that mouth is going to get us killed,” he adds gruffly.
I stand corrected.
I drift in and outfor what feels like another hour of torture. I don’t even notice the door open or that anyone has descended the steps.
I don’t notice until I feel him exhale against my cheek.
“Grandmother is not very tolerant,” Abbott says.
Just kill me.
The man smells of a cut lawn, sweat, and boiled potatoes. No sense of personal boundaries. No concept of the obvious social cue I’m giving him by cringing away.
“Cold water will help.” Abbott tips a canteen against my chapped lips, letting out a slow trickle of water to wet the dry, throbbing sores and tissue in my mouth.
It’s still painful, but I can’t help but groan in relief.
I let the cold water soak and swish against my tongue for a while, allowing my throat to soften and expand enough to swallow.
“That purity wash is performed on Emerald Wives often. Did you know that? Of course not. Your skin has—what are those—freckles? Sun damage?” He gently taps my right hand. “Your fingernails have dirt under them. Calloused palms. Dry knuckles…”
