Page 4 of Drenched

I scanned the room. Small. Cramped. It stank of mold and old peat. The walls were damp, paint peeling off in sad, curling strips. The bed looked ready to give up. When I tossed my bag onto it, the springs let out a tortured groan.

The air was sour and stale, like no one had bothered to open a window in years. I took a slow breath through my nose. Just temporary. Just part of the deal.

I grabbed some clean clothes and headed for the bathroom. The tiles were cracked and freezing beneath my feet and when I splashed water on my face, it hit me like a slap.

I looked in the mirror. Pale skin, dark hair hanging limp and dull. My eyes were shadowed with dark circles, the exhaustion carved deep. The cold hadn’t been kind to me. Traveling through it had stripped away whatever energy I had left.

Nothing strong stared back. Just someone worn out. Just someone scared.

I changed as fast as I could and sat on the edge of the bed. My eyes landed on the old gas heater tucked in the corner. Maybe some heat would help. I shuffled over, knees stiff from the cold. The metal casing was dented and streaked with rust. I turned the knob and clicked the ignition switch.

Nothing.

I tried again. The igniter sparked, but no flame. Just a hollow click-click-click. I leaned down, peering into the empty chamber. No hiss of gas. No faint smell of propane. The tank was dry.

The cold wrapped itself tighter around me, sinking into my bones. I rubbed my hands together, but it was useless against the chill. The heater wasn’t going to save me. Not tonight.

To distract myself, I took out my phone, and, bingo,there was no signal. Of course, we had been informed that radio was the only means of communication in this remote village.

I sank back onto the bed, staring at the wall. My thoughts circled like vultures, picking apart every scrap of doubt.

Why am I here?

Five months ago, Dr. Henderson,the dean at the university where I taught ,called me. He'd been buzzing about the algae like it'd cure cancer or something. He even managed to secure government funding for this trip to study its properties.. But for me? This wasn't about research.

I was here because my parents were.

I was just fourteen when they vanished. Everyone said drowning, but it never made sense. They were careful, experienced, and always had a plan. Them.. drowning. It just didn’t make sense.

I remember our empty house afterward. The quiet hurt worse than any noise. Nothing felt real anymore.

I thought living with my aunt would help. That it’d make me feel safe again.

My uncle made sure that didn't happen.

It started like the usual, he would call me“little Pearl.” Would mess up my hair. Would sit on my bed when I couldn't sleep, saying soft things. But then his hand stayed too long on my shoulder. His words turned wrong, made my skin crawl. Every touch left me feeling dirty, like I'd never be clean again.

Every night I prayed he'd stay away. He didn't. His presence became a weight that just crushed me, inside out. His touch was something I couldn't wash off. I scrubbed my skin raw in scalding showers but it didn't help. It never helped. I felt trapped in my own body.

That's when I found the razor.

The first cut was just a test, a quick sting, a flash of red, and everything else blurred out. The chaos quieted, narrowing tothat thin line of crimson. For those few seconds, something was finally mine to control.

After that, it became a ritual. Each mark, my choice. My pain. Not his. The cuts got deeper, more frequent. At night, I’d trace the raised lines with my fingertips, counting them like prayer beads. One, two, three... until the panic eased. Some nights it took more than others.

But one night.. one night it became too much. Way too much. It's all still hazy. There was blood, so much blood, and then my aunt came running.She cradled me in her arms.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered, holding me tight. I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop sobbing.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Her eyes burned with a quiet rage I’d never seen before. She packed our bags, took my hand, and we left.

“You’re safe now,” she said, her knuckles white on the wheel. “I’ll handle everything.”

I never asked what “everything“ meant, and she never told me.

New York became home, sort of. Far from that house. Far from him. But distance doesn’t erase shadows. Some nights, I’d wake up with the taste of copper on my tongue, like blood lingering in my mouth. My fingers would trace the scars running up my arms. Each mark was a reminder: sometimes pain was better than feeling nothing.

Therapy helped me move forward, but the past still slipped through the cracks. Like that night. Him stumbling into my room, drunk, for the last time. Me, not frozen, not again. Then the spray of red. His face twisted in shock. My aunt in thedoorway, then pulling me into her arms, holding me together when I was ready to shatter.

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