Page 13 of Lost Petal

Chapter 7

Petal

He left.

The handsome stranger who stepped into my bleak cell, who barked insolent commands at me and then beat me until I lost all self-control, shrieking and wailing like a victim of torture just left without another word.

I was too distraught to even look up as he moved toward the door, and I flinched in pain when he let the door shut behind him, followed by a loud click that silenced any hope for an impending release.

I remain curled up on the small bench with my feet pulled up to my chest as I lie on my side. The bench is narrow and too short for me to rest on comfortably. My feet were dangling over the edge when I woke up, as were my arms. I couldn’t bear that right now. Everything inside me is yearning for just one thing: comfort.

Safety, clarity, hope. A reassurance that everything will be fine. All those things could provide me with at least a hint of comfort, but as of right now, I can’t hold on to any of it. I don’t feel safe—on the contrary. My mind is still fogged and riddled with obscure images that make no sense to me.

When he forced me to look at him after he was done beating me, there was something there. I felt so humiliated, so ashamed, so hurt—and so incredibly angry. It wasn’t there at first, that exuberant fury. Before he made me reciprocate his cruel gaze, I felt nothing but shame and pain, but as soon as my eyes latched onto his, I was overcome with anger. At him. At the situation. At everything.

It sounds weird, but in that very moment, when nothing but rage filled my confused self, it actually felt good. It felt right.

It felt like I was getting close to the truth that’s been taken from me.

But the feeling didn’t last. And at this point, I’m not even sure it was ever there, or real, for that matter. It was just a few seconds—the time that passed while he made me look into the hazel depth of his eyes.

It could have been a cruel trick, nothing more. Just a little game he’s playing to confuse me even more.

Why is he doing this to me? What have I done to deserve this?

If I could at least have that question answered...

Knowing the reason behind all of this would make it so much easier for me to deal with this situation. If I knew why, I would also know who I am, or at least what kind of person. Maybe I’ve committed a crime? Maybe I got caught doing something very bad and he is some kind of vigilante working in the name of justice? A justice that—for whatever reason—could not be brought upon me by our legal system.

Maybe I do deserve all of this.

But what if my sin is so bad that not letting me know is only a sign of mercy from his side? What if he doesn’t tell me because the truth would destroy?

I close my eyes, subtly shaking my head as I curl up into a ball.

No. Whatever the truth behind all of this is, it can’t be worse than this. It can’t be worse than not knowing anything at all.

An abrupt sound causes me to jerk up, my eyes wide in surprise as I turn around.

The lock. Someone unlocked the door.

He’s back.

Instinct chases me away from the door, seeking solace with my back against the concrete wall opposite to it, as far away as possible. A few moments pass before the door is slowly opened from the outside. Two things are different this time. First, he doesn’t check on me through the hatch before opening the door. Second, there’s no glaring light invading the room as he steps through.

Just before the door closes again, I realize there’s a third difference to the first visitation.

The person walking through the door is not him. It’s not even a man.

A figure, small and narrow-shouldered, with black curls surrounding a set of equally dark eyes, enters the room in small and deliberate steps, carrying a tray in front of her.

It’s a young woman, wearing a simple black dress that ends shortly below her knees, and matching black ballerina slippers on her small feet. She’s very short, a lot shorter than me, but I’m still intimidated by her presence.

The door snaps shut behind her back, making me flinch, as if the sound of it were painful, while the girl remains standing right in front of it about ten feet away from me, with the leather bench between us.

She looks at me, mirroring my anxious expression. The tray is shaking in her hands, the feeble sound of rattling cutlery echoing through the room while she stares at me with her small shoulders tense and up to her ears.

Is she a prisoner, too?

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