Page 22 of Lamb

“Not exactly.” Lamb took the slowest possible turn, exposing his back as he propped himself against the doorway.

“Is that so?”

“I can’t leave you alone.” Lamb shrugged. “I don’t know what you’ll do.”

“What do you expect me to do? Jump out the window?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Lamb sighed, and I swear his irritating dramatics only fuelled the flickering fire inside me. “I can talk my way out of a lot, but a dead body on my driveway would land me jailtime for suspicion alone.”

“I am not suicidal,” I grumbled, once again looking at the window. We were on the same floor as the bedroom, and I had spotted stairs at the far end of the hallway, so we were at least on the second story. Even if I had managed to jump out the windowand not break a limb, I would not get far with my sober state; a hard lesson learnt last night.

Between the low chances of a successful escape and Lamb’s unbudging form, I accepted that this was probably my only option and the closest thing to privacy he’d allow.

I stared hard at his back, waiting for a flinch before peeling off my socks and jeans. I steadied my hand against the tub, fighting the flittering spells of dizziness that came and went with movement. The humidity didn’t help with my disorientation, but my skin seemed to breathe the vapour like a beached whale desperate for moisture.

Only my shirt was left after a few suffering moments of fighting the materials, revealing layers of dirt, grime, and sweat. It was only then that I became painfully aware of the large mirror hanging on the wall. Our eyes met, and the person staring back at me was not a person I recognised. She was haggard and hollow, hopeless and destitute. A shell of a person.

I could not take my eyes away, even as I pulled the shirt over my head, exposing the broken body I was burdened with. Even in dim light, the taut scars were reflective in the dim light. Some were worse than others, but each was disfiguring.

I could hear each gunshot in the back of my mind. The longer I looked, the more blood beaded from my skin. From each of my scars, a long trail of red trickled into a puddle at my feet. One in my chest, just above my heart, left a gorged hole in my breast, and instead of blood, a black, viscous liquid ran ice-cold down my skin, dying the red pool into a dark abyssal hole in the floor. My feet slowly sank, consuming me into a frozen, unforgiving embrace. I saw the girl disappearing in the mirror, tears running down her face, crying.

Why bother?

Crying had never solved anything.

“Did you get stuck in your shirt?” Lamb’s voice snapped me from the nightmare. Light slipped through the blinds again, and the girl in the mirror stared back at me, dirty and tired, but no more blood stained the floor. “Need a hand?”

“Donotturn around,” I growled, turning away from the mirror at last.

I carefully lifted my foot over the rim of the bath, letting myself slowly slide down into the tub. It was unbearably hot, but the heat seeped deep into my bones as I melted beneath the surface. Soft floral scents floated into my nose, a mix of jasmine and lavender sinking into my mind and body.

The water turned dark and murky as I watched the dirt lift off. I rubbed my body with my hands and a bar of unscented soap on the stool, fascinated at the bare, clean skin beneath. I washed my face by splashing water onto my hands and let my hair sink into the water. It was knotted and matted, and even with the shampoo and conditioner at my disposal, it did little to loosen the nest I had grown.

I gave up, my hands shaking too hard to even attempt to tame it, and finished up cleaning what I could. The bath had long grown cool, and as I stood, I once again saw the distorted reflection of my pale skin in the dark water.

Lamb, true to his word, had not turned around or even made a single comment since. He had all but faded into the background of the doorway, a solitary, silent statue.

Even as I staggered out of the bath, shaky hands fumbling with the white towel that I wrapped around me, he stayed quiet.

“I am … done,” I chattered, the tremors in my body reviving the nausea the bath had only temporarily soothed.

“There’s clothes on the counter,” Lamb spoke, his low voice jarring in the extended silence.

I looked across to the porcelain sink, where a stack of clothes was neatly folded in squares, piled on top of each other.

My feet pattered across the sandstone tiles as I shakily pulled the items apart. I held the cotton black knickers on the tip of my finger, a matching black sports bra staring up at me.

“You even went this far ...” I grumbled.

Lamb said nothing.

I kept as steady as I could and pulled each piece of clothing on—the underwear, cotton socks, and the joggers. They were soft, and clean and dry, and fit suspiciously well. It was only as I was reaching for the final item that I paused.

I stared at the empty counter. “There is no shirt.”

Lamb lifted himself from the doorway, turning with supernatural grace until his eyes landed on me. His gaze stayed steady on my face, as if nothing existed below my neck. An arm extended, and in its hand was a folded grey shirt. “Here.”

I pulled it from him, smelling the familiar earthy notes, and pulled it with little grace and some struggle over my head. It kept falling until it stopped below my hips, hanging loose and large from my shoulders. It was not massive on me, but it wasn’t my size.

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