Page 37 of Beautifully Wounded

Ringo rounds off a few more rules before he leaves. Don’t open the door for anyone. Don’t make it obvious if I try to peer out the window. Don’t make too much noise to draw attention. And of course, once again, don’t run or I won’t like what happens.

He then lets me know that even if I do leave the room, I won’t get past the security on the gates, which settles any more ideas I have of trying to run as he leaves for whatever the hell church is.

Finally, alone in the room, I let my curiosity get the better of me and snoop through the few drawers in the room. I find his boxer and sock drawer over by the hanging clothes. I snoopthrough the pockets of his jeans and hoodies, but there’s not much else.

Doesn’t he have stuff?

There’s not a single thing in this room that looks personal. No picture frames with friends or family. No trophies. No posters. It just looks like an old shitty motel room used by a guest.

Glancing around the space, boredom creeps in, so I decide to clean myself, taking a quick shower, struggling a little with the dressing on my hand before redressing in some more of the clothes Jols packed for me. Another pair of gym pants, a white tee, and I redon Ringo’s hoodie despite how warm it is in here.

Rifling through my bag, I check to see if there’s anything Jols packed that can keep me occupied, like a book, or even some nail polish, but I don’t find anything but my clothes.

Ugh.

I stare at myself in the mirror for a bit. Ringo was right. I look pale. Sickly. It’s fitting with how I feel, although my boredom has given me restless energy that I don’t know how to deal with.

Leaning closer to the mirror, I study the darkness sitting beneath my eyes. It’s not new. I’ve had it for months. Lack of sleep most likely the cause. That and my crippling anxiety making it hard to stomach food.

Glancing down, I pinch the fabric of my leggings, pulling it easily because they’re no longer skintight on my bony legs. I’m sure I look like I have an eating disorder, and I guess I do if you consider how little I can manage to stomach, but it’s not on purpose. It’s from the fear I carry. It’s made me so sick over the last year.

Sighing, I use the comb I found with my clothes, and detangle my hair, parting it down the middle and braiding my hair on oneside. After securing the hair tie I found in my bag, I braid the other, but since I don’t have another hair tie, I go hunting for Ringo’s. He’s always got one on his wrist. He’d have more around here somewhere, surely.

The bathroom cupboards come up empty, so I move to the bedroom and glance around.

Ah. The bedside table.

Moving to it, with the end of my braid pinched between two fingers, I pull open the drawer and immediately spot a handful of hair ties.

“Yes,” I whisper, smiling over the small win, and secure my second braid.

I’m about to close the drawer when the book underneath the hair ties catches my eye.

The Forgotten 500.

Curious, I brush the hair ties to the side and pick it up, flipping it over to read the blurb to find it’s about World War II.

Huh. I never considered Ringo would be into reading war history.

I’m about to put the book back when I freeze with the book mid-air, my eyes locking onto a large black cylinder that reminds me of a torch. Only the end has a fleshy coloured tip.

Slowly, I reach down and grip it, lifting it out to examine it, before a strangled choke comes from my throat.

“Oh, my…” I whisper, gazing at the very clear looking vagina.

Is this?

I’m about to throw it down, but then, against my better judgement, my curiosity gets the better of me and I press my finger to the surface.

Ohwow. It’s soft. Almost like silky skin, and I find myself gliding my fingertip over it.

It kind of feels real.

Does Ringo use this? Does he put his penis in there?

Needing to know if it has a hole to slide something into, I use my thumb to part the… uh… labia, and then I push my finger in.

Oh... Flutters of arousal grow between my legs, and I’m shocked to feel it for the second time in the last twenty-four hours since it’s been so long that I’ve felt anything remotely arousing after Daniel started treating me like a disposable whore.

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