Page 38 of Kotori
I claw at the elaborate obi, but there are too many layers, too many ties, too many pieces I don't understand. The fabric wraps around me like chains, holding me in place while I fight to get free.
"Come on," I whisper, tugging at fabric that won't budge. "Come on, come on."
My fingers find a tie that seems important, and I yank at it. Something loosens, then tightens again in the wrong place. Theobi shifts but doesn't release. I'm trapped in expensive fabric, wrapped up like a present for someone who thinks he owns me.
Kotori.
I make a sound that's half sob, half scream and attack the kimono with fury. Pulling, twisting, fighting against layers of tradition that won't let me go. A seam tears. Good. Let it tear. Let it all fall apart.
Finally, something gives way. The outer layer pools at my feet. Then the blue layer. Then the white. I kick the geta sandals across the room and they hit the wall with a satisfying crack.
I stand in the middle of expensive fabric wearing nothing but the white cotton undergarments and silk shorts they put on me like I was a doll. Like I was something to be dressed up for his pleasure.
The tears come all at once.
I sink to my knees among the silk puddles and sob until my chest aches. Ugly sobs that echo off the walls, that would horrify the composed women who dressed me this morning.
What is happening to me? What kind of world have I walked into?
You could be. With proper education. Sufficient motivation. Complete surrender to the natural order of things.
His words echo in my head, calm and certain and terrifying. The way he looked at me when he said it. Like it was already decided. Like I was something he'd already claimed.
You belong to me now.
I bury my face in my hands and let myself break. For the first time since I got here, I stop pretending I'm handling this. Stop acting like I'm strong enough for whatever game he's playing.
Because this isn't a game.
My suitcase. I need to get out of here.
The thought hits me like lightning. I scramble to my feet, stepping on expensive fabric, not caring if I ruin it. My suitcaseis in the closet, where I shoved it after unpacking the first day. I yank open the door, drag it out, and flip it open on the bed.
I grab my jeans and a sweater, pulling them on with shaking hands. My own clothes. My identity. My choice. Then I start throwing everything else in—t-shirts, underwear, the few personal items I brought. I don't need much. Just enough to get away.
The door. I need to check if the hallway is clear.
I slide it open just enough to peer out. Empty. Thank god.
Which way to the exit? I try to remember the route from when I arrived, but all these hallways look the same. Left, I think. Left and then straight to the main entrance. I have to try.
I grab my passport from the drawer where I stashed it, shove it in my pocket along with the small amount of cash I have, and zip the suitcase shut. It's small enough that I can carry it rather than drag it noisily behind me.
I slide the door open wider and step into the hallway. So far, so good. No one in sight.
My heart pounds as I move quickly down the corridor, trying to step lightly, trying not to look panicked. Just a casual walk. Nothing suspicious here. Just a woman carrying a suitcase through a house she's supposed to be living in.
I reach the end of the hallway and peer around the corner. Still clear. I turn left and keep going, passing doors and alcoves, beautiful artwork and antique furniture that suddenly seems menacing. Every shadow could be someone watching. Every closed door could open at any moment.
Finally, the main entry hall comes into view. Enormous and imposing, with its high ceilings and traditional architecture. And there—the massive front doors that I came through just days ago, thinking I was starting a normal tutoring job.
But there's a guard stationed by the entrance, his back to me. I freeze, ducking behind a decorative screen. I need another way out.
I backtrack, trying to remember the layout of the house. There must be a side entrance, something less obvious. I follow a narrower corridor that seems to lead toward the rear of the compound.
It ends at a sliding glass door that opens onto the garden. I slip outside, the cool morning air hitting my face. The garden stretches before me—the same garden where he had me kneel just hours ago. I push the memory away and focus. Beyond the manicured landscape must be an exit, a gate, something.
I skirt the edge of the property, keeping close to the high stone wall that surrounds the estate. The suitcase grows heavier with each step, but I refuse to abandon it. It's my only link to my real life, to the person I was before I came here.
