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I think several days passed in the darkness. I’ve waited in fear, every hour, that these shadows will never end. The silence will make my ears bleed. I’ve waited for Albatross’s voice to show up once more, giving away more useless information, and talking to me like a small child. I’ve waited for food, water, crumbs—anything to keep me alive. Perhaps they’ve forgotten about me, perhaps they’ve lost interest and are simply waiting for me to die.
With the black scenery becoming all that I know, I wonder if I made Albatross up? Maybe when I was captured, my mind created moments. Maybe my mind gave me a source of entertainment to distract me from all-consuming darkness.
I try to sleep mostly. Count the seconds, count the bars around me. Recall stories that Dessin or Kane would share with me to play out in my head. But the doubt starts to creep in like an infestation of cockroaches. What if Dessin isn’t coming for me? What if I am trapped here forever? What if there is no Dessin and I’m insane? I want to bang the side of my head into the bars until it stops working. I want the thoughts to be silenced and to go back to sleep. I don’t want to wake up until he comes for me, even though that day might never come.
34. Obedience
I’ve tried to ignore it, but the smell has woken me up. No one has let me out of my cage to relieve myself. I—I’m lying in my own feces, my own pitiful excretions, my own reminder that I am, in fact, still alive. It hasn’t been much because I have no food or water to release, but it’s enough to burn my nostrils and cause soft sores on my backside. Every time I reawaken, I hope to God that I open my eyes and see the sun and feel the wind on my cheeks. I hope to God that Dessin has finally come.
But, shamefully, I don’t want him to see me like this. My hair is a matted pigeon’s nest, and my hygiene is not far off from a disease-ridden rat. Has it been weeks now? I can’t recall. When you can’t see the sun come up, and the moon cools the sky, you can’t count the minutes that keep you captive.
Time is not my friend.
I don’t even care about escaping anymore. I just want a sip of water. I just want to talk to someone. To soak in a warm bath. To brush my hair. To take a bite of a piece of bread. I want the next breath I take in to be clean and without the toxic scent of urine.
But maybe this is it. This is where I die. They’ve clearly abandoned me in this room. I’m never getting out now. They locked me away and are waiting for me to starve or die of a bacterial infection. Dehydration is certainly a strong possibility too. When I imagine dying, looking into a light, slowly drifting away… it’s not the worst thing. In fact, give me a few more hours and I might beg for it. Isn’t that weak to say? I’ll beg to die. I’ll beg God to bring me home so I can shed this disgusting suit, this heavy, filthy body with welts, sores, and bruises.
I won’t have to wake up cold anymore. I won’t have to readjust my position in hardened fecal matter. I’ll spread my wings and fly away. I’ll watch over Dessin and my friends, and I’ll be their warrior angel that will fight for them on the other side.
It will be beautiful.
~
White blinding fire glows everywhere. It’s shining through the slits of my eyes, leaking past my eyelashes, making my eyes water and burn.
“You’re foul, girl. I’d breathe in through my mouth but then I’d taste it.” Absinthe. Absinthe! A person! Light! Oh my god! Can I see again?
I force my eyes open, to adjust to the lights painfully. As it comes into focus, I see that the light is not white, it is a soft glowing chandelier above my head. Golden crystals sparkling, hanging off the gaslit wicks, the golden arches. I scan the area, small space, mahogany walls, designs carved into the trim. I see a sink and a small, cracked mirror. My hands grip the surface they’re lying on; it’s an armrest. And there are wheels. I think I’m in a wheelchair. I look to my right and see Absinthe hovering over a copper bathtub, running water from an old tarnished faucet.
“Don’t even think about trying anything. I could’ve let you sit in your filth for several more days. But the smell was fogging up the mirrors in the hallways.” She hand tests the temperature in the bathtub. Her voice is strong, yet old and unstable with weakening tones.
“I won’t,” I say. Scratchy. Hoarse. Raw.
“’Cause I’d beat you dead if you did,” she adds. I believe her.
Absinthe steps in front of me and removes my gown. I sit in the wheelchair, completely bare, cold, shivering, waiting for the warm bathwater. For the first time in—days, maybe—dopamine seeps into my brain, tingling behind my eyes, spilling into my chest. It’s nearly enough to bring a smile to my face.
A bath. It’ll raise goose bumps from the back of my neck to my bare feet. I’ll lie in there with my eyes closed for as long as she lets me. I’ll ignore my stomach growling and my cotton tongue stuck to the top of my mouth. I will float, hum, relax, and when she’s not looking… I won’t miss the opportunity to drink it. I don’t give a damn if it’s in my own filth. I’ll die without a drop of water.
With her bony arms, Absinthe lifts me out of the chair. Her frizzy, gray hair grazes underneath my chin, and I catch a whiff, a quick inhale—the scent of licorice and mildew. But who am I to judge anyone’s personal stench? She grunts and hisses as her wilted skin touches the back of my disgusting legs. With a single heave and a close-mouthed groan, she chunks me into the tub. I’m silent before I scream. My body is stabbed in every direction. Tiny incisions are made, sharp sensations shake the skin off of my bones violently and I’m instantly wide awake.
“It’s colddddd!” I wail, throwing my hands above my head to reach for the edges of the tub. Flailing. Flopping about like the tail of a dolphin doing tricks. Help!
A choked gasp. “You splashed me! You awful girl! You stupid, ugly girl!” Absinthe spits on the floor next to me. She wastes no time charging from the other side of the wheelchair. I see the point of her pinkie knuckle first as her fist swipes across my left cheekbone. A shock of pain bolts under my skin, and it throbs like a heart, pumping blood to the wounded area before I can accept that punishment for what I did. But there’s no pause between assaults. No time for me to take a breath. Another punch to my jaw, slightly to the left of my chin. My head shoots against the side of the copper tub with the blast of her third swing. I am unaware of where she hits next, my whole face is screaming. Is she breaking my bones? Is she beating me dead? I can’t feel the coldness of the bath anymore. My skin is completely numb. But my cheekbones are being filled with sharp stabs, as if someone was hammering an ice pick into my bone. Between her next force of impact, I’m able to let go of the breath I was harboring in my lungs and scream like it’s the last time I’ll ever be able to use my voice.
“Enough, old woman!”
Her fist freezes in the air, a breath away from my nose. She leaves it hanging, gritting her teeth, panting with me. I lick my lips and taste the rusty metal that is my blood. My eyes fall to the cold water, and like drops of fresh ink, the crimson-red blood spirals around my body, like a murderous cloud. Like the washing of paint brushes.
Albatross yells again. “Did you hear me? I said that’s enough!”
Absinthe grunts and rolls her decaying blue eyes. “I heard ya,” she mumbles, leaning into me, nose to nose. “You make another fuss in here and I won’t stop again. Not even if he tries to break down the door.”
I move my head down, unable to lift it up again. Runny, warm blood trickles down my chin and neck. Tluck. Tlock. Tluck.
Absinthe grabs a bar of soap and a yellow sponge. She dips both in the water and rubs them together, sudsing the sponge with bubbles. There is no gentleness to her touch, although that doesn’t surprise me. Those gnarled, hard hands work like she’s scrubbing a pan of dried food and grease.
I don’t suck in a sharp breath at her lack of a sensitive touch, I don’t squirm as she washes my breasts violently. I hang my head in agony, watching the drops of blood saturate my bathwater, staining the shiny soap bubbles. My breaths are quiet, shallow, afraid to upset Absinthe by existing.
