They flip me onto my back, and the overhead light is blinding.
Their faces swim above me, distorted into gargoyle masks of hatred and glee. They are no longer individual girls; they are a single, double-headed monster of vengeance. Their insults are a cacophonous chorus, but Felice’s voice cuts through, clear and sharp.
“You are nothing.” A slap across my face as my vision flashes white. “You are a temporary amusement.” A punch to my jaw. I taste blood, metallic and warm. “You will be discarded.” A knee drives into my stomach.
I retch, bile burning my throat.
The pain begins to lose its individual edges. It becomes a tide; a vast, suffocating ocean I am drowning in. Each new blow is just another wave crashing over me, driving me deeper. The physical agony is unbearable, but it’s the humiliation that truly breaks me. They are exploring my body not with desire but with contempt, mapping my vulnerabilities with cruel, knowing hands. They are proving, in the most visceral way possible, that I am just flesh. Breakable, worthless flesh.
I am sobbing, but the sobs have no sound anymore. They are dry, racking shudders that tear through my broken body.
Julie uses her entire weight to pin me down while Felice grabs my leg, wrenching it to the side.
“Fucking bitch.” Felice hisses. “Dirty fat ugly bitch.”
I scream as she forces something into me, something hard, something unforgiving, something not designed for such a use.
She smirks, pulling it out enough, holding it up so I can see and the horror I feel is indescribable. It’s a broken candlestick holder. A wooden, intricately carved ornament that’s been snapped in two, severed in half, and at the sharp, splintered end, I can already see blood.
“Whore.” Felice spits before ramming it into me again. “Fucking whore. You think Master wants you? You think he’ll even look at you once he sees this? When he realises your cunt is ruined?”
“Fuck her harder.” Julie cries. “Make her bleed more.”
I scream, I thrash, I turn into an absolute wreck as the thing is forced in and in and I can feel each little bit slicing up my insides, cutting into me, brutalising the parts of me that are so deep that I think this might be is, this might be how I die.
“Fucking bitch.”
“Fat fucking slut.”
My consciousness begins to fray at the edges. The lights overhead blur into starbursts. The sounds of their taunting become distant, muffled, as if I am sinking deep underwater. The pain, once all-consuming begins to recede, not because it has stopped, but because my body can no longer process it.
The last thing I see is Felice’s face, leaning close. Her beautiful, monstrous face is smeared with my blood. And she smiles, a ghastly parody of pleasure.
“Disgusting fat piggy,” she whispers.
And then, the tide finally pulls me under. There is no more sound, no more sight, no more feeling.
There is only a profound, welcoming blackness that I embrace because it is the only escape left.
Issac is waiting at the top of the steps, a silhouette against the vast double doors. His posture is ramrod straight, but I can see the tension in the set of his jaw even from here. Clara stands just behind his shoulder, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Seeing them both here, waiting like sentinels confirms the brief, cryptic message I received just over an hour ago:”Incident in the doghouse. Anya is deceased.”
I don’t hurry. Power is in the measured step, the unflappable calm. Besides, I know what happened, seeing as I ordered it. Each click of my oxfords on the stone is a deliberate beat of control. I reach them, and the night air is cold with unsaid things.
“Master,” Issac says, his voice low. He doesn’t offer more. He knows I don’t require it yet.
I give a single, curt nod, my eyes moving from his grim face to Clara’s. Her gaze is downcast, a rare show of what? Guilt? Fear? It’s irrelevant. “Show me,” I command, the two words cutting through the humid air.
They turn in unison and lead me through the cavernous entrance hall. Our footsteps echo on the polished basalt floor. Instead of turning towards the living quarters or my study, they guide me down a narrower corridor, one that leads to the east wing, a part of the house I use for storage. The air grows cooler. We stop before a heavy oak door.
Issac opens it.
The room is a small, windowless antechamber, sparsely furnished with a single chair. But the focus of the room is the long, metal table in the centre. And on the table, a shape covered by a stark white sheet.
I walk forward, my movements slow, deliberate. I can feel Clara and Issac holding their breath behind me. I stop at the table’s edge. With a hand that does not tremble, I reach out and pull back the sheet from the face.
Anya.
Her features are pale, waxy in the harsh overhead light. The vibrant, defiant woman I tamed is gone. In her place is a doll made of cold wax. There’s a bruise darkening her temple, a small cut on her lip. Clearly the girls weren’t brutal enough, because she doesn’t seem to have suffered as much for her disobedience as I would have liked.
