Page 94 of Servitude to Serpents

That old panic tickles my chest, but for months, it has been unable to take root as water pours over my face.

It’s almost like it isn’t happening.

Anything at all.

Of course, I can feel it, the things they do to my body, but it’s not me. It’s not happening to me. It’s happening to another woman.Chloe. Some unfortunate, pitiful person I don’t know. I can sympathize the way you do when you hear about a car accident on the news. It’s sad, and you might get a tinge in your chest before you smile because it’ll be sunny and warm for your extended weekend. Only, I’m not smiling, and it’s been so long since I felt warm.

My thoughts, as they often do, turn to sage and oak, angry hazel eyes and touches that are adoring and soft as she thrusts her hand between my legs, mumbling to herself as she scrubs me.

“Hey, listen to me!” She scolds quietly, her brows furrowing as her hand pauses on my forehead. “You feel feverish.”

“I think I have a UTI. My vagina hurts, and it burns when I pee.”

She shakes her head. “You’re supposed to tell me these things so I can help. Have you been eating?”

I shake my head.

“You’ve been in this life long enough to know better. What did that man do to you?” She asks, mostly to herself as she frantically tries to get me presentable, but we both know it won’t help. There isn’t enough time. This filth has been weeks in the making. It seems my shiny new car smell finally wore off, other lilies coming and going. Now, my visitors are mostly made up of trainers and other higher-ups. They rarely complain.

Her question bounces back to me after my mind finishes wandering.

What did that man do to you?

That vivid pain tickles my chest, the one he put there.

“He loved me,” I whisper.

Her hands still as they scrub at me, her forehead coming to rest against mine. That maternal touch reminds me so much of before my first stay here, when hers was the first touch of kindness I’d felt in ages. But now, instead of my mom, it's Mahari who haunts me, her gentle laugh and smile. My eyes well with tears for a moment before that too fades.

“They don’t fall for the whores. Ever. Put him out of your mind, or you won’t survive this.” The words are grave, spoken in a way that hints at a heartbreak of her own, but I don’t press. I just don’t…care.

“They’re coming. You need to go.”

“It’s my job to take care of you girls.”

“It’s Mistress,” I warn, wishing she’d just go. I knew what would happen when my behavior got back to her, when Sir told her I was refusing to eat, to bathe, tofuck. I wasn’t being any fun, and they can’t have that. I delivered a lackluster performance at my last party, laying limp as they took my mouth and ass, like a corpse.

That’s what this feels like.

A small death.

One of countless ones.

Because it doesn’t matter if I’mgood, if I perform well, or make things fun for them. They rape and pillage all the same. My body sometimes responds when I’m lucky, but even that is barely enough cause to blink, let alone moan and writhe.

She jerks me from the tub, and I rush along with her—not for me, but because I don’t want her to get punished for helping. That’s one big rule here, the biggest. Asidefrom obeying, we don’t interact. Don’t help each other. We aren’t friends, sisters, or even humans. We’re ghosts haunting the same space on different planes of reality and suffering.

Weweresisters and brothers.

Friends.

Moms, sons, and daughters at some point.

Before they took that.

And I love one of them, one of the ones who inflicted this on me by playing into it, by being a part of it, so I suppose that doesn’t make me any better. Especially because Istilllove him, so much that it hurts.

It’s agonizing, truly. Hellish, even, what he left behind.

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