Page 6

My throat starts to burn with the feeling of wanting to vomit. I breathe through it, begging my body to keep the food down. It takes a few minutes before the feeling goes away.

Sliding the plate back onto the desk, I slowly stand up from the kneeling position I was in. Looking around the room, my mind eases, seeing no sign of Riot.

Walking into the bathroom, I look in the shower for any soap. I see some sitting on the bench and wonder if I could take a shower. I’ll clean it head to toe afterward to get rid of any dirt from my body.

I wouldn’t have any clothes to change into. There was another door in the room, maybe it was a closet.

Walking back into the bedroom, I do one more sweep of the room to make sure it’s empty before continuing to the door on the opposite wall.

I open the door a crack and see the warm glow of lights sweeping over a huge walk-in closet full of clothes.

Opening the door the rest of the way, I walk in and click the door closed behind me. Rows of hanging racks line the walls, two shelves under all of them. They are covered in extremely neatly folded pants, and shoes line the shelf under them.

On the right side of the closet, more comfortable clothes line the walls, whereas on the left are all his professional-looking clothes.

I look at the back wall, and my jaw drops. This is next-level real rich bitch shit going on here. A washer and dryer sit in the middle, stacked on top of each other. Absolutely genius. A man came up with this? Surprising.

Unless he has a wife. I’ve never heard Father mention him having a wife or a girlfriend. Doubt that fucking icicle has a wife or even a damn dog.

I walk over to the cozy clothes, running my hand over them, feeling all the different materials. The shirts go from cotton to some sweaters made of fleece and some of his suits spilling over to this side, the rough fabric of them brushing my fingertips.

I find a Nirvana t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants but freeze in fear, and my fingers brush the shirt. What if he gets angry at me wearing his clothes?

At this point in my life, if he kills me, it’ll be a mercy for me, and I’d welcome the death with open arms. Taking the chance, I grab the clothes.

Exiting the closet, I look around the room once more. Two black leather chairs sit against the wall closest to me, with a small table in-between them. That’s the same chair he was sitting in. On the wall furthest from me sits the desk my food was on. It’s littered with papers and other miscellaneous stuff. Something in my peripheral catches my attention. A little blinking red light, attached to a camera. Great.

I sigh softly, tears starting to prick my eyes at the thought of being watched and preyed on again. I put my head down, walking over to the bathroom. Clicking the door shut, I lock it and set the clothes down on the large marble counter that’s attached to the double sinks. Okay, so maybe there is a wife? Poor woman.

Searching the bathroom for any cameras or electrical devices, I come up empty-handed other than an electric toothbrush. I strip my clothes off, careful of any bruised or cut areas of my body. I drop them into a small pile on the floor near the door.

I look at myself in the mirror, and I barely recognize myself.

It’s been years since I’ve stood in front of a mirror. My face sinks into itself, the sickly pale skin highlighting my cheekbones. Each rib sticks out, stark against the sterile lights of the bathroom. The sight makes me nauseous.

I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the wetness streaming down my face, dripping onto my arm. I look into my eyes in the mirror. Dull and lifeless. Void of any speck of happiness.

When mom passed away, nothing seemed worth it anymore. Dying would be my solitude. I’d rather die than become someone’s toy again. I was able to escape my father once, but never again. I know I’ll never escape Riot.

Dropping my hands to my side, I tear my eyes away from my body and walk over to the shower, turning the hot water knob on and just a little bit of cold water to make it not scorching. I watch as the water starts streaming out of the ceiling.

I walk into it slowly, hissing as the hot water hits some almost healed cuts. Allowing my shoulders to drop, I lean my head back, letting the water glide down my body, the dirt and grime slowly sliding off.

When my father allowed me to shower, it wasn’t a normal shower. He’d throw an ice-cold bucket of water on me every morning to wake up.

Being clean didn’t last long when the house was littered with dust bunnies and trash. Let alone the disgusting disarray of that room. Bugs crawled around on the floor, and my mold-covered bed due to it never fully drying.

I take the men’s three-in-one shower gel. I hate this stuff. I saw ads for it all over the TV when my mom and I would watch my shows. My father uses it as well. I always hated the smell because of it.

Taking a deep breath, I pour a glob into my hand, lathering it into my long hair. I breathe the entire time slowly, trying not to inhale the smell too much. The memories it brings back make my skin prickle and my legs shake.

Pushing the thoughts out of my head, I continue to wash my hair. I lather up some more, using it as a conditioner, and a dollop in my hands to wash my body. I see he has a loofah, but I refuse to use it. I’m already using his soap, I’m not going to put my germs on his body scrubber. Before I turn off the shower, I rinse off the remaining soap. I panic a little bit when I realize I didn’t bring a towel with me.

Stepping out of the shower, careful not to slip, I rummage in the cupboards, finding a towel at the very end of the counter.

Wrapping myself in the overly fluffy towel, the cotton clinging to my wet body feeling ever so soft. I dry off and put the new clothes on. The sweatpants and shirt I found earlier hang way too loose over my body. I have to fold the sweatpants over a couple times, and even then, they hang low on my hips.

I drop my old clothes and the used towel into the washer, but don’t start it. I have no fucking idea how to work the hunk of metal.