I gasp, stumbling backward, but the water follows me like a relentless wave. It hoses me down from head to toe, a brutal, impersonal spray that has nothing to do with cleanliness and everything to do with degradation. It forces my eyes shut, it stings my nostrils, it pounds against the fresh bruises on my skin.
It leaves me shivering so violently my teeth feel like they’re going to smash apart.
Through the water blurring my vision, I can see the other girls watching. Their eyes are not curious anymore. They are staring at my naked body with pure, unadulterated disgust. As if I’m a strange, repulsive animal. Their lips are curled. Felice whispers something to Julie next to her, and they both smirk.
The water shuts off as abruptly as it started. I am left dripping and shuddering, my skin mottled red and blue with the cold. Mistress steps forward and throws a small, thin towel directly at my face. It hits my cheek and falls to the wet floor.
“Dry yourself quickly. You’re dripping all over the floor,” she snaps. “And get dressed.”
She nods toward a plain, grey, shapeless thing hanging on a hook on the far wall.
My fingers are numb and clumsy. I fumble with the towel, trying to pat my body dry but the towel is cheap and small, and instantly soaked. It’s a pointless exercise. I am still shivering and damp when I pull the stiff, unforgiving fabric over my head, and it clings unpleasantly to my wet skin.
I stand there, a drowned rat in a rough-spun sack, my hair plastered to my head and neck, and the trembling isn’t just from the cold anymore.
A deep, seismic fear is taking root in my core, spreading through my veins like ice.
What will today bring?What fresh hell awaits me after a night of torment and a morning of this?
Mistress seems to read my mind. “Seeing as you have no talents, today you will make yourself useful and clean.”
Clean? What the fuck? Like Antonio doesn’t have countless maids already.
“Move,” Mistress barks, and I jump.
I take a hesitant step forward, my mind reeling. I don’t know where to go or what to do. I’ve never, I don’t…
Crack.
A searing, white-hot pain lashes across the back of my thighs, right through the thin dress. I cry out, a sharp, involuntary yelp of pure agony, and lurch forward. I glance back, terrified, and see Mistress holding a thin, flexible cane. Her expression is one of bored impatience.
“I said move. Now.”
Tears of pain and shock spring to my eyes. I don’t dare rub the fiery welt.
I scramble forward, half-running, half-stumbling, desperate to get away from her.
And as I flee, that sound follows me. It starts as a low chuckle and then spreads until all the girls are laughing. It’s not a joyful sound. It’s a sound of cruel entertainment, the laughter of an audience watching a clown fall flat on his face.
Their relaxation, their ease, their laughter, it’s the final twist of the knife. They have comfort, they have fresh fruit and pastries. They have the privilege of watching me be broken.
And I have nothing but this itchy old dress, and a day of scrubbing ahead of me.
My hands are still trembling as I fill the bucket with more water from a deep sink in the corner and add a capful of pungent, acidic cleaner.
My first task is the floors. I get on my hands and knees, dunking the brush in the hot, chemical-laced water and start to scrub. The bristles are harsh on my skin. The smell of the cleaner burns my nostrils and makes my already empty stomach roll.
I scrub every inch of the thick flagstones, working the brush in circles until my shoulders scream, and my knees feel like they’re actually bleeding. The water in the bucket turns grey almost instantly.
I don’t know how big this house is. In truth it doesn’t feel like a house, it feels like a sprawling fortress. I decide the most logical thing is to work my way through each level and as I do, I shoot quick glances out the window.
That’s when the reality of my situation truly hits me.Where the fuck am I?I know the English Channel is not that colour. I know the sea is a deep, stormy grey. But here, all I can see is an impossible turquoise. And the cliffs, the rocks – this is not England.
Is it possible Antonio transported me somewhere? Somewhere far away?
I wipe my brow and it hits me too that this heat, this warmth, this is not a British climate either.
Where the fuck am I?
