Page 63 of Even Robots Die
Which brings me back to the problem at hand.
I’m not on the anti-bleeding shot, and I basically have two to three days before I become a bitchier version of myself.
I wish I could say that I’ll be done with this little experiment on Brice’s brain by then, but I doubt that.
I also doubt that he is ready to handle me at my worst.
I doubt anyone in this castle knows what’s coming, and maybe a part of me feels bad, but there is another part—a huuuuge part—that revels in the idea that I’m going to be a pain in their asses.
I should care.
I don’t.
They should have thought twice before kidnapping some human girl with a sarcasm and authority problem.
The joke’s on them.
I take another minute before I head back inside without saying anything to Brice.
Why would I, anyway? He can see perfectly well what I’m doing.
38
Florentine
It only takes one day before what I was dreading arrives.
I spend a whole day doing alright—if being horny and jumpy is doing alright—but when I wake up the next morning, it’s nothing like I ever felt.
I’m stuck in bed and I can’t move. I’m curled in on myself as if I could make an imprint of my arms on the skin of my shins for how tightly I grip them.
This is the only way I feel like I’m not a freaking ball of pain. That doesn’t mean I’m not in pain. That just means it is slightly more tolerable.
And I’m being generous by saying it’s somewhat tolerable. My clenched teeth and the way I’m breathing like I’m giving birth each time I feel my insides contract, however, say otherwise.
It feels like hours since I woke up sometime around five, but I can barely see the light of the sun through my curtains—that, surprise, I forgot to close last night but don’t have the strength to close now—so I know it couldn’t have been that long.
It’s never been like this.
Why on earth did it have to be this way when I’m stuck in a castle away from home?
It feels like Mother Nature herself is rebelling against my body and I’m pretty sure I’m currently turning the sheets blood red.
I should care, because no one really likes to bathe in their own blood, but I don’t have that kind of strength right now.
All I can focus on is the pain and how to control my breathing each time my damn body cramps.
It’s never been like this. Or, at least, not that I can remember. Memory is a fickle thing, especially when it comes to pain.
Even when I was younger and decided that I should take the shot that cuts off periods, I don’t remember it being this painful. Thinking about it right now, I would very much like that shot.
Puking my guts out sounds like a walk in the park next to what I’m going through.
I should get up and change.
It’s the last thought on my mind when I pass out from exhaustion.
It feels like minutes later when I wake up again. I crawl to the toilet, clean myself, change my panties, and add a pad.
