Page 80 of Servitude to Serpents

That’s what he said.

“I assure you this is the right one,” she argues, frowning. “It’s a stunning dress. The Scott Henshall he bought a month ago.”

I stare at the fitted, knee-length, semi-sheer dress, faint gold inlaid in damask designs. It's beautiful, sure, but there’s one glaring issue, one that has my hand gripping my stomach. “It’s black. I wear blue, royal blue.”

She huffs, pulling her note from Sir, shoving it at me. “It’s right there, in his hand. The black damask Henshall, paired with the gold serpent collar.” My fingers smooth over his penned cursive scrawled along the page.

She drapes the dress over her arm, leaving me there with the note. “I’ll have this steamed.” With that, she leaves.

All the while, I’m in the midst of a staring contest with a piece of paper. It takesa while, too long, maybe, for my mind to rationalize how silly it is to be upset.I’m a whore.

A sex slave.

A dog.

How else would I help?

I am most useful silent and spread.

The sound of the paper crumpling in my hands seems to shock me out of whatever state of mind I slip into just in time for me to bolt from the room, making it to the toilet seconds before I vomit. My throat burns as I upend everything from my dinner, my stomach cramping from the force of my heaves by the time I press my clammy forehead against the chilled porcelain of the toilet.

The phantom hands are there, prodding, caressing, spreading, pinching. My chest vices around my lungs, making them shudder and rattle in my chest. I bow over to press my forehead against the marble floor, but I go in too quickly, effectively head-butting the ground.

Oh God.

God, I can’t breathe.

The slight hum that’s born from a lived-in home is too much. It’s a quiet buzz, but it might as well be as pungent as a scream. The smell of my vomit fills my nose as I struggle to force air through my lungs.

I don’t want them to touch me.

I don’t want to be touched.

The phantom hands pull and tug, and again, I’m in the water.

My throat is hoarse as I scream, my mouth dipping under the waves as I take in gulps of water. “Help! Someone help!”

“Chloe!” Renee sputters. She’s drowning. We’re both drowning.

My arms shake from exhaustion as I try to right my grip on her, underneath her shoulders with one arm, the other acting as my only tether to her floatie. I hadn’t even realized.

God, we’re too far out.

Another wave slams us, saltwater assaulting my eyes and nose as she goes under. For a moment, I think I hear it—the rumble of a boat, like I thought I heard it hours ago, dangerous, fleeting hope blooming in my chest.

I sob. “Renee!”

My arm clinging to her floatie slips, and suddenly, my sister is an anchor. The dark water below seems infinite, only the shape of blonde hair swirling around as we struggle. Despite the weakness in her arms, she drags, clawing at me. My chest aches as I hold my breath, my head going light as we’re tossed around by the waves.

I’m going to die.

We’re going to die.

I can tell the exact moment I’m going to take a breath, when my lungs are going to force the issue of breathing, but there’s no air to be had down here. My grip on my sister loosens, slipping from me entirely as a sharp, agonizing pain erupts in my eye. Like I’ve been gored, I scream, sucking the saltwater into my lungs as my body stops responding to the panic in my mind.

Water drips from my face as I stare at my blurry reflection in the mirror, my breath coming to me in small little gifts from my lungs. It’s just enough to keep me alive, but not enough to give me any comfort. My good eye squeezes tightly shut, blocked by my hand.

One of the men who jumped in and pulled me from the water shoved theirfinger so hard in my eye, it left me with a large corneal laceration. It was done in a moment of panic as he grappled with whatever he could to haul me up, leaving me with an injury that required three surgeries to repair and partially blind. The bizarre, bisected way my pupil healed came later. I kept us above water for two hours. The police said it was amazing I’d kept her up that long.They praised me. Told me I did a good job while we waited for my sister’s body to bloat enough to float to the surface. Mom and Dad couldn’t bear the sight of me. All Grandma could say was,at least you made it out.

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