Page 38 of Barbi and the Villain

“How could you be here that long?”

“Does that surprise you? I am a mummy, after all,” he mentions drily.

Oh, my. Did I offend him by calling him a mummy?

“If it makes you feel better, you’re a toned mummy,” I say as I pat his chest. Yes, that’s quite nice. Not shriveled up, nor dry. “Of course, I am not an expert on mummies. I’ve only watched a couple of movies, and those mummies looked pretty disgusting before they did some magic to get back their looks—not that you look disgusting,” I hurry to add. “I don’t know what you look like since it’s so dark. But you don’t feel disgusting,” I say as I touch him some more. Yes, very nice and warm, snuggly too if I were to lean closer. “Those mummies had holes and tears in their flesh, and bugs were crawling through their orifices, but you seem quite whole to me—except for the finger I broke. Did I apologize about that?” I laugh nervously. “Oh, my. I hope you don’t have bugs crawling through your skin or something like that. I can’t imagine feeling them move on your skin and inside your body…”

A sudden, deep laugh erupts in the air.

I stop mid-sentence, my lips parted as I feel the vibrations coming from his chest.

“Where did you come from, female? I have never met someone like you before.”

“What do you mean?” I demand in indignation.

“You are…interesting,” he murmurs in a low, barely audible voice.

“Oh.” I nod. “Interesting good or interesting bad?” I ask, just to make sure.

He doesn’t answer.

“Come on. You can’t say something like that and not qualify it,” I complain. I’ve often been told I am too curious for my own good, but I prefer to call it inquisitive. I merely like to have all the facts before me.

Once more, he doesn’t reply.

“Hey!” I jab my finger in his hard, not quite mummy-like chest. “I’m talking to you.”

He releases a deep sigh.

“Interesting good or interesting bad?” I repeat. “Please don’t say bad, though. Maybe choose another word. I’d rather not have that hanging over my head while I’m already in such a precarious situation with all this death and gloom. But if it’s interesting good then you can say so. Maybe use another adjective as well, as long as it’s complimentary,” I yap happily. It’s been far too long since anyone’s said anything kind to me, so any compliment would go a long way considering I’ve been told all my life what a disappointment I am.

I await anxiously his next words. I am not sure why the validation of a stranger—of this stranger that I haven’t even seen—matters so much. But it does. My heart is in my throat, beating loudly and making me choke on absurd anxiety.

“You talk too much. Be a good girl and go back to your corner of the cell. I would like to have my peace back,” he drawls, effectively ending the conversation.

I blink in the dark, swallowing hard at being dismissed like that. To make matters worse, he turns his face away, the sudden absence of his warm breath on my cheek making me feel rather bereft.

I grit my teeth. I am not one to let myself be intimidated by a rough, manly voice, so I feel compelled to continue making my case.

“Psycho Damien and stupid Jocelyn also think I am interesting. Well, not in a good way, seeing that they want to sacrifice me for some nefarious purpose, but not in a bad way either since they need me. So you see, I am quite important.” I sulk. “And, of course, I am the Dark One’s heart,” I add grumpily when no reply is forthcoming.

With a loud huff, I get up to leave, stumbling again on my way and almost falling a few times. As I reach my corner of the cell, I slump my shoulders and I drag my knees to my chest, finally able to let out the weary breath I’ve been holding in.

My lips tremble and tears gather at the corners of my eyes. My awful situation is dawning on me, as well as the fact that there is little I can do to save myself and my PomPom. I can put on all the bravado in the world, but in the end, I have to face my fate. I’m going to die in a goddamn fictional world—one that I, ironically, worshiped for half of my life.

I stare at the darkness, coldness seeping into my bones once more. My arms tighten around my knees in an attempt to preserve what little body heat I have left.

He’s there. In the dark. I can’t even make out his shape, but if I focus hard enough, I can hear his quiet breaths. They’re short and clipped, just like him. There are other sounds in the dungeon. Moans and whines of other prisoners still alive. But they’re all a low, muted sound. Removed from my reality, or perhaps, I have yet to accept that this is my reality.

A deep sense of shame envelops me as I realize I’ve been taking out my anger on the wrong person—a poor mummy who is also Damien’s victim.

But just as I’m about to apologize for my abysmal behavior—I did steal his finger first—more sounds erupt from deep within the dungeon. My head whirls around as I drag myself closer to the bars. There is a source of light at the end of the tunnel—one that’s becoming stronger with each passing moment.

I smack my lips together. I’m so thirsty. Do prisoners get water benefits? Somehow, I doubt that. But that still doesn’t stop me from asking.

“Excuse me. Is anyone there?” I call out to the flickering light.

The only response I get is the piercing moan of pain from a random prisoner.

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