Page 50 of Lost Girl

What’s the point? He may claim to not know what’s happening, but I know he does. The man isn’t an idiot by any means.

He's awaiting confirmation much like I am.

“Fine. I’m sending my sister with a towel and clothes, though.”

I don’t get to respond. He’s cutting on the water and dashing out the door before the words even form. I won’t lie, my heart sinks at the thought of him being upset with me, and yet I can’t say I’d fault him if he were.

All he wants to do is help and I’m shying away, literally pushing him away.

I just don’t want to say the words aloud.

Not yet anyway. Perhaps once I know this is real, then I’ll be able to spill it all.

Kind of like the way my body seems to be doing right now. The cramping hadn’t been so bad back in the teepee, but I feel them coming on.

All I can hope for is that I’m thrown in the “lucky” group and pass this thing quickly.

Rising from the toilet, I go about the motions of undressing, then using my nightie to clean up what blood I've left behind on the seat.

And then the tears come, finally—right then as I toss the soiled garment into the small sink and take a good look at myself in the fogging mirror.

I nearly choke on my reflection.

Can’t recognize the woman who stares back at me. The dark bags beneath my eyes and the light film of dirt clinging to my skin only begin to scratch the surface of what I’ve endured on this island. It’s hard to look at her because seeing her in this state threatens to unleash that hell in a reel I don’t care to relive.

I just want to wash it all away.

Not how this works, I know, but I can try, right? Brief moments of reprieve are better than none at all.

It’s that thought that moves me into the shower. White curtain closing behind me, I drop my head beneath the spray, sighing at the relief the scalding water brings. Tears continue to roll and I don’t fight them. I set them free, release everything I’d been holding back in that dungeon.

Every tear I didn’t shed.

Every emotion I forced myself to repress.

All of it flows down the drain, melding with the remnants of dirt and blood shedding off my body.

Knock, knock.

A young woman’s voice follows; Tigerlily I presume.

“Wendy?” she calls softly.

I’m nervous to meet her, don’t want her to see my like this. I quickly tilt my head and scrub at my face, hoping I’ll appear more fresh and less sickly. Rubbing the water from my eyes, I poke my head out of the curtain and end up kind of just gaping.

She’s beautiful, all smooth caramel skin and long dark hair. Not shocking really—just look at her brother.

They have the same kind eyes.

“Hi.” I smile. “Tigerlily, right?”

She returns a friendly smile and nods. “Tavi said you were bleeding? Like menstrual bleeding?”

No.

“Basically,” I lie.

“He said it’s a lot, though? I’m sure he just meant heavy, yeah?”

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