Page 73 of Deviant

I look horrendous.

I look as bruised and battered as I feel.

And then my eyes drop to appraise my body, to see all the scars and damage that’s been inflicted there. There’s a bandage over my breastbone and the constant throbbing beneath is another reminder of what’s been done. That he branded me, he seared his family’s crest into my skin like I’m some object he can possess.

I guess in his mind that’s exactly what I am. A thing. A belonging.

I clench my jaw and even my teeth feel brittle like they might crumble if I bite too hard. There isn’t a brush on the side, but I’d give just about anything to clean them right now. I guess I’ll just have to settle for rinsing my mouth out.

With my hands, I shakily catch the water as it flows and gulp it down, suddenly so aware of how thirsty I am. Obviously whatever drugs I’ve been given are starting to wear off, that or I’m just coming back to my senses.

Telling myself that the drink was enough, I turn and stumble towards the doorframe, using it to keep me up. My left leg is pretty much useless, and I have to put all my weight on my right only I don’t have the strength or the bravery to hop.

God, this was stupid. I should have just stayed in the bed. I should have just ignored my damned bladder, but if I had, I very well could have pissed myself and I know Magnus would have been furious at that.

I can feel the sweat on my brow, I can feel what little energy I have seeping away. The bed feels like it’s a million miles from me, that I have to cross an entire desert to make it. I gulp, repeating over and over that I can do it, that it’s not that big a deal, that once I’m there, I can sleep.

But another jarring step stops me in my tracks and my chest heaves with the bitter realisation of how utterly broken my body truly is, while a snide voice in my head whispers that I’ll never recover, never be the person I was before.

That I’m irrevocably damaged now.

That even if these wounds heal, even when my leg is mended, my soul will still be fractured.

My right arm has a long, awful wound that traces right up to my elbow where I tore my flesh open with that broken fragment of glass. They’ve stitched it back up, stitched me back up, patched me up like a rag doll. Once it heals fully, I know that scar will be there for life, acting as a constant reminder of where I failed. Of the chance squandered.

“You should be in bed.”

I jolt, my eyes darting up in fear, even though I know it’s nothim.

“What, what are you doing here?” I gasp as I meet his butler’s gaze. He shakes his head slightly, taking in my naked body and though I should be used to it now, I still feel another wave of shame. That I’m exposed, that I’m no better than an animal right now, with everything on display.

He holds out his arm, taking my weight and practically carries me across the room while I try my best not to recoil or fight. As he helps me get into the bed, I swear I see a flash of something akin to pity, but that could also just be my desperate mind clinging to something I know no longer exists.

“You need to keep off this leg,” he states.

“Why are you here?” I whisper.

He shakes his head again, murmuring that he’s not meant to be talking to me. That he’s under strict instructions not to utter aword.

“Please…” The word escapes my mouth, but I’m not begging for help, I’m not asking him to get me out of here, I just need to understand what the fuck is going on.

Why am I here? Why am I not back in that basement? What the fuck does this mean? And more to the point, what does he have planned for me now? What awful things lay in my future?

I can’t speak those questions out loud, I can’t form any articulate words and yet, I know that he knows what I’m thinking, what I need.

He lets out a low breath, walking over to where he’s placed a tray of food and he brings it back, making a point of gesturing for me to eat. My mouth waters at the sight of it, even though it’s pretty basic. There’s a small bowl of soup, some boiled vegetables, and some plain looking chicken. All of it looks measured out, as though someone has specifically decided the portion size. There’s no cutlery either. Just tiny bite-sized pieces.

Is that Magnus’s new plan? Feed me up. Fix me up. Make me as shiny and new as he can before he once more shatters me into a million pieces? I can’t help the shudder at that thought.

The butler raises an eyebrow at me as if silently questioning my reaction, but I decide not to respond. If he won’t speak to me, then there’s little point divulging my thoughts, is there? So instead, I eat in silence. I have to pick the soup bowl up and slurp it. I chew as quietly as I can, fearful that perhaps this isn’t actually permitted, and any minute Magnus is going to storm in here and snatch this precious meal away from me like he’s snatched everything else I’ve ever held dear.

When I’m done, he takes the tray and leaves. He doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t utter a single syllable.

And then I’m alone again.

Relief, confusion on some level, and grief hits me as I lay back down. I don’t understand what is happening. I don’t understand any of this. My mind feels like it’s running at a million miles aminute trying to figure this, desperately seeking an answer so that I can prepare, so that I can be ready.

But hours past. The whole day seems to pass and no one comes back. No one breaks the solitude. I lay there, too afraid, and in truth, too weak to do anything but simply feel each second ebb into nothing.

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