Page 27 of Mutant Mine

The thought of Roth creeping around while I was unconscious on the bed makes a flush climb up the back of my neck. Why wouldn’t he just wake me?

I hope I didn’t talk in my sleep. Or snore. Ordrool.

And why did I feel relaxed enough to sleep so late, with a stranger in the room? That’s not like me at all. I’m normally a jumpy sleeper, waking up at the slightest sound. It’s a deeply ingrained instinct, because I’ve never had a bedroom to myself. Sometimes you get lucky with good roommates, other times… not so much.

Feeling sick, I give my whole body a quick once over, running my hands over my limbs — am I still dressed in my uniform? Yes. (Which was clammy as hell under the comforter, by the way.) Does anything hurt or feel different than it did last night? No.

I really do seem to have slept all night, without Roth doing anything to harm me. I breathe a sigh of relief, even as my gut churns in confusion.

If anything, I feelgood —physically, at least. Better than I’ve felt for ages. After the last couple of days, a decent meal and a night in a soft bed were just what my body was crying out for. The inside of my skull feels less like a cheese grater has been taken to it.

That must be why I slept for so long and so soundly. It’s not like I feltsafehere with Roth, or anything like that. It’s just that I was so exhausted, I passed out. I would have done the same thing halfway down a vent shaft eventually.

On the subject of bodily needs… I head into the bathroom. As I perch on the toilet, I look wistfully around at the gleaming taps, the thick towels, and the pastel-colored goops and gels in bottles and tubes.

I would love to be clean. Could it really do any harm? I don’tthinkmy funky miasma is what put Roth off doing anything last night. By the cold light of (artificial) day, I realize that if he’d really wanted to, he could have just commanded me into the shower and washed me down himself. The image makes my stomach flip-flop.

I can’t waste another day shivering in a corner of the room like a kicked puppy. I need todosomething. I need to reconnect with my body, and start feeling more like myself again. More in control.

Mind made up, I double-check the lock on the bathroom door, then start filling the sink with warm water, laced with a squirt of scented soap. Armed with a washcloth, I set about wiping myself down.

Even behind the locked door, I don’t want to get fully undressed. Instead, I expose one itty bit of myself at a time: one arm, one leg. For the parts that I don’t want to expose at all, I reach the damp cloth under my baggy jumpsuit.

A whore’s bath, my mind supplies — the giggling words of one young roommate on the estate.Tits, pits, and slit!Elena. God, she had a foul mouth. She wasn’t a bad roommate, though. Never stole my stuff. Taught me how to braid my hair.

There’s a big jar of chewable tooth-cleaning capsules in one of the cabinets, which is a massive relief. After chewing one up, I’m so giddy at the feeling of my clean body and fresh, minty mouth that I can’t resist one last luxury: shoving my head straight under the faucet to scrub my greasy hair, not caring how wet and messy it gets me. With my hair cropped so short, it’s quick to towel-dry, and I find a comb in a drawerunder the sink.

I wonder if I’ll live long enough to grow my hair out and braid it again someday.

Heading back into the bedroom, I venture into the closet that Roth mentioned yesterday. Sure enough, it’s stocked with clean crew uniforms. Some are way too big — presumably in Roth’s size — but there are some extra smalls in here, too. It’s like he made sure there would be clothes waiting for me before I arrived.

Did he know that I’d end up locked in here with him?

Nope. I’m not getting into that kind of paranoid thinking. No matter how freaky Roth looks, he doesnothave superhuman powers. He’s just a man. There’s no way he could have predicted that I would survive the breakout, let alone end up getting dragged to him like a virgin sacrifice.

It must be a coincidence. He probably just got someone to bring him a stack of random clothes from the laundry room when he arrived.

Whatever the reason, I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth. I snatch a clean jumpsuit, boxers, undershirt, and socks from the closet, and dash back into the bathroom to change.

My chest binder is vile: stained and smelly from being pressed against my skin for days on end. I’ve not really noticed it while I had bigger fish to fry, but now that a few of my other discomforts have been relieved, I can feel again just how much it’s making my back and shoulders ache.

Oof. Ow. I really need to take it off. But I don’t have anything to replace it with — so I begrudgingly leave it on, under my clean new outfit.

I’ve just dumped my dirty clothes into the laundry chute when the door to the bedroom flies open with a bang.

I yelp, practically jumping out of my skin. I spin around,ready to snap at Roth for bursting in without knocking — then I slam myself back against the closet door in shock.

Roth iscoveredwith blood. It’s all over his hands, up his arms and chest, and even splashed across his face, the red appearing purple where it’s spread over his blue markings.

“What the… Jesus, are you okay?” I ask, all the bite falling out of my voice. Instinctively, I take a step towards him, reaching out.

“It is not mine,” Roth says.

I recoil, my hands snapping back to my sides. What was Idoing?

Looking again, I can see the gore darkening his horns. My lip curls in disgust.

“Of course it’s not yours,” I spit. “Who did you brutalize this time?”

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