In the all-black bathroom, I find a walk-in shower that takes me a moment to figure out how to turn on. But when the hot water meets my skin, I moan because it feels wonderful—like I am washing away the nightmare of what has happened. Not that I would ever forget.
But I am in the denial stage right now. I know the aftermath will come around; if I am still alive then. A displaced laugh escapes my mouth from the absurdity of everything.
When I am done scrubbing off the filth, and my skin is flaming red from the hot water, I turn it off and wrap myself in a towel. I wipe the steamed mirror and look at myself in it. Dark eye-rims, bloodshot eyes, slightly fallen in, probably from dehydration. It’s the first time I realise myself as a being again.
A being with needs. I am so thirsty I could drink an entire ocean, so I open the tap and drink. I feel and see my wrists, and they look like both of them were broken. They’re obviously not because I can still move them, but they’re heavily bruised and hurt like crap. My fingers tingle slightly, probably from being tied up the entire time.
I wonder how long they kept me down there. I have no clue what day we have and no sense of time.
When I open the bathroom door, clothes lie on the bed, and a plate of food sits on it.
Without hesitation or questioning, I take the plate with bread, fruit, vegetables, and meat and eat all of it as fast as possible. I don’t even taste it properly. It’s more like shovelling it in, and I begin to feel like a human being again after I eat the last crumb of it.
Only then do I check out the clothes. I pick up something with a floral print and hold it up. A white square-neckline dress, with narrow straps, a red Tudor rose print, a tailored fit and a flared skirt.
“Seriously?” I say. “What is wrong with you people? Dressing me like a doll? What is the point of it?”
There’s also a thong from a soft material I have never felt before, a bra that looks as if it might fit me, and shoes. Well, more likeheeled cork sandals. With red straps. Leathery red straps that are unbelievably soft, with a buckle closure.
I also find a bag with necessities to freshen my appearance.
I let myself fall on the bed, still in my towel, with wet hair. I don’t care.
How the hell did this happen?
And what happens if I can’t find anything about my father?
Or worse, if he really is a gangster who stole money?
And then they said I murdered someone.
I know I didn’t. The mere thought of it makes me shudder.
I need to get rid of these thoughts.
I stare at the black ceiling.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” cuts a voice through my mind. I didn’t even hear her entering, and I sit up. Way too fast. Little lightnings dance in front of my eyes.
It’s the older woman. I don’t even know her name. Or do I? I try to recall what happened in the downstairs room and in the basement, but I can’t. What happens is that a shudder runs over my back, and my head twitches as I try to remove the sensation.
“I didn’t know I was required—“ I say.
“I told you to get cleaned up,” she says harshly. “Not to lie around.”
“I am sorry that I am exhausted from being tortured by you,” I snap at her. I am usually more polite, but that woman doesn’t deserve polite.
She looks at me like she wants to strangle me.
“Get dressed,” she says and leaves, the door slamming into its hinges. I flinch as the memory of a burning sensation on my bum resurfaces.
What a nice person,I think to myself sardonically. She looks like death, acts like the villain, and has the charm of a flatbread.
Wonderful, really bloody wonderful.
I grab the bag and get myself ready in the bathroom. I dry and brush my hair. My hair is naturally as flat as it can get, and even if I curl it or put products in it, it’ll be flat within half an hour.
I slip on the underwear, followed by the dress. Everything actually fits me, and it makes me wonder how they got the fitting clothes so fast.
