It’s nothing compared to what she’ll wake up to.
After I put the photo on her bed, I resume taking more pictures of her. I frame another inch of her body with my camera.
Press the shutter. Wait. Repeat.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The valley between her breasts, her belly button. The perfect triangle of her pussy. Her toes, her fingers, they’re all captured one by one.
The shutter of the camera and her shallow breaths are the soundtrack of my obscene task.
Again.
Again.
Again.
It goes on like this until I’ve exhausted the dozens of films I’ve stocked in the drawer of her bedside table. Until I’ve documented both the front and the back of her body.
I dismiss the voice that insists I’m losing more of myself by pinning the photos of this depraved collage to the wall by her bed. Nothing can stop me, least of all my foolish heart.
Once I’m done, I take a step back to look at my handiwork. At the photos I arranged in random order, from the floor to as high as my hand can reach.
There’s no grace or symmetry to this collage. Picasso’s Cubism isn’t there either.
This is a jarring portrait of a lost girl.
My girl.
Not yours.
Not anyone else’s either, as far as I’m concerned.
No one’s.
7
ELOWYN
Coming back to my body turns out to be a slow and grueling process.
Mild nausea rolls through me, churning in my stomach. There’s a metallic tang on my tongue. My throat is raw.
On top of that, I feel the stiff sheets beneath me. Every inch of my skin registers their texture. Far more than I would be able to if I were dressed.
Oh God.
Oh. God.
I’m naked.
Everything’s flooding back.
The Estate. Herbert. The drink.
