Page 13 of Bound to the Guard

When it becomes clear he won’t be popping back in, I undress, my body shaking as I peel away the layers of blanket and hospital gown.

Inside the shower, I press the panel of buttons on the tiled wall until water crashes down from the waterfall fixture in the ceiling. I stand under the hot spray, the tears that leak down my cheeks getting swept away as fast as they fall. I never thought I’d have another warm shower.

I stand under the spray for long minutes, letting it sluice away the grime, blood, and misery of the last few days. Of the last year. If I stayed in here for hours, it still wouldn’t be enough.

Unsure how long the hot water will last, I grab a washcloth, lather it up with fancy soap, and start to scrub.

And scrub.

And scrub like I can wash away the memory of cruel hands if I just try hard enough.

Soon, my skin turns raw and red, stinging. The wound on my arm where I ripped out the IV opens back up, blood mixing with water and swirling down the drain. It takes all my self-control not to tear off the weird rubbery bandage on my bicep where I gouged the tracker from my flesh, knowing that will only hurt me more.

Tears blur my vision as I rinse off, the sweet scent of the suds a jarring contrast to the ugliness inside. Will I ever be clean again? Will I ever stop feeling so dirty, so used up?

I shut off the water and stumble out onto the bathmat, the plushness pure luxury under my aching feet. The hot water left me shaky and lightheaded, with the overwhelming need to lie down. But I keep moving. If I stop now, I won’t get back up.

Wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I shuffle over to the vanity, wiping steam from the mirror.

My reflection stares back at me, gaunt and haunted, my olive-hued skin sallow from lack of sun and my black hair ragged, parts of it brushing my shoulders. Dark crescent shadows sit beneath dull hazel eyes, and a jagged scar bisects my left eyebrow from when my last owner threw a wine bottle at me.

I’ve become a stranger to myself.

With a glance toward the closed door, I ease open the vanity drawers, marveling at the array of personal grooming items. Things I haven’t seen, let alone been allowed to use, in ages. Some I’ve never used in my life and leave me unsure of their function.

I use the comb to work the tangles from my hair, wincing as it tugs on my scalp. When I finish, I pick out all the strands stuck in the teeth before washing and returning it to the drawer.

Next, I select a nail clipper, the metal cool and solid in my palm. Such a small thing, but being trusted alone in a room with a potential weapon feels monumental.

My arms tremble as I hunch over the wastebasket to trim my ragged nails, digging out the dirt beneath that the washcloth couldn’t reach. Then I sit on the toilet and do the same to my toes.

Washing the clippers, I pat them dry and replace them. A rummage through more drawers produces a bottle of lotion with a label that boasts ‘intense hydration.’ My cracked, dry skin needs it.

My legs shake as I half-sit, half-fall onto the tiled floor. Fumbling open the bottle, I squirt a generous amount into my palm, breathing in the light, clean scent. Motions methodical, I work it into my face and body, spending extra time on my abused feet and wincing when I hit sore spots.

Thick calluses cover my soles, the result of a year spent barefoot because my captors thought it would discourage attempts at fleeing. The joke’s on them, I suppose. In the end, it only made me more resilient. Though my soles ache from the mad dash through the woods and the long trek to town, I escaped relatively unscathed, with only a few minor cuts and bruises.

I massage the lotion in until it disappears, my skin drinking it up like parched earth after a rainstorm. When I flex my toes, the movement doesn’t hurt for the first time in months.

For a moment, I let myself imagine this as my new life. That I’ll do this every day, that I’m really, truly free. It seems too good to be true.

Then again, Damien promised no one would hurt me here. That I’m safe. And my poor, battered heart wants so badly to believe him.

Muffled sounds from the other room startle me, and I panic, worried that I took too long.

With trembling hands, I return everything to its proper place, erasing any sign of my presence. The toothbrush Damien gave me sits on the counter, and I use it, wincing as the fine bristles work my tender gums. When I spit, blood mixes with the foam, adding the worry of things like cavities and gingivitis that I haven’t thought about in forever.

The clothing Damien provided is several sizes too big, and by the scent, from his own closet. The shirt slips off my bony shoulder, revealing the sharp jut of my collarbone, while the oversized pants, tied tight at the waist, pool around my ankles as the slippery fabric refuses to stay rolled up.

Wrapping myself in the blanket once more, I take a steadying breath and exit the bathroom.

The moment I step out, a mouthwatering aroma hits me, and my stomach twists painfully, a hollow ache settling deep in my gut as I follow my nose to the source.

In the front room, Damien stands beside a small table, an array of dishes spread out on its glossy surface.

When he spots me, he beckons for me to join him.

I study the spread of oatmeal, soup, and bread. While simple, it’s a feast. Drawn by the chance of a full belly, I shuffle closer.

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