Page 69 of Wicked Beasts
It’s closed.
My brows furrow.
Didn’t I open it?
“Miss Amara? Are you alright in there?”
The voice cuts through the clog in my ears, sharp and insistent. Mrs. Wong’s tone is laced with concern, but there’s an edge of tension in it, as though the silence in the air has unsettled her too. The knock comes again, more forceful this time, and it echoes in the emptiness of the bathroom, vibrating against the walls and through my pounding skull.
I shift slowly, unsteady on my feet, my body protesting the movement as I stand. My fingers grip the edge of the counter, the cool surface grounding me for a moment as I try to steady myself. The dizziness swirls, leaving me teetering on the edge of fainting again.
The sound of Mrs. Wong’s voice seems to break through the haze, pulling me further from the disorienting fog clouding my mind. I force my legs to carry me, but each step feels like wading through a dense fog, the weight of my thoughts slowing me.
I close my eyes for a moment, willing the disorientation to pass before I push myself to move again, my fingers dragging across the cool surface of the counter as I make my way toward the door. The sticky chill of the room seeps deeper into my skin, but it doesn't cut through the hot throb of fear gnawing in my chest.
The silence feels heavy.What happened? Why was I on the floor?The questions swirl in my mind, unanswered, as tension coils increasingly tighter in my body with each passing second.
I shift slowly, the world still fuzzy, as I make my way toward the door while still clinging to the vanity. The doorknob rattles, followed by the soft creak of it opening. Mrs. Wong steps inside. Her sharp eyes quickly take in the bathroom and me, standing, though unsteady.
“You are not ready,” she says, her voice low, with an edge of reprimand.
I try to focus on her words, but my mind is still a swirling storm. I glance at the yellow dress draped over her arm, thendown at the towel still wrapped around me. My body feels strange—too heavy and too light at the same time—and my thoughts are lost in a fog.
Before I can respond, Mrs. Wong steps forward, unfolding the dress with a practiced hand, and it spills out like a stream of sunshine, vivid against the dim light of the bathroom. She holds it up to me, her gaze unwavering. “Dr. Shadow is expecting you soon.”
The words cut through the haze in my mind, and I freeze for a moment. Dr. Shadow. I blink, trying to pull myself together. I’m struggling to string together a proper thought, but everything feels like it’s happening too quickly.
Mrs. Wong doesn’t hesitate, tugging the towel from my body, leaving me naked and exposed, finally shocking me out of the infinity of my stupor, though large swaths of haze remain.
“Hey!”
I try to grab it, but she hangs it on the hook behind her as she shuts the door. She moves with a swift, authoritative air as she starts to dress me, helping me into my underwear, into stockings, lifting the dress to drape it over my head. The silk is cool against my skin, the contrast between the soft fabric and the lingering heat of my body jarring. She steps beside me and zippers up the back as she ties the silk bow.
Her hands move with precision, adjusting the dress, smoothing the folds over my figure and the sleeves that hang off my shoulders and hug my arms. I stand there, barely aware of my own movements. There’s a distant quality to everything, like I’m watching from the outside, too slow to fully process what’s happening.
“Hold still,” Mrs. Wong commands, and for the first time, I notice the faint edge in her voice, something tight that wasn’t there before. She glances up at me then, as though assessing, and in that moment, I realize her eyes are not just focusedon my appearance. There’s something in the way she’s looking at me, something kind and worried beneath the mask of her professionalism.
I want to ask why I’m feeling so strange, why everything seems so...off, but my voice feels distant, caught in some desert between my throat and brain. I don’t say anything.
“There,” she murmurs when she’s finished, stepping back to survey her work. I look down at my body, smoothing my hands against the fabric. The yellow dress clings perfectly to my body. Mrs. Wong continues to move about the bathroom as she prepares me for my dinner. She plugs in a curling iron and begins to dig around in my makeup bag.
I have no energy to protest, no energy to get ready myself.
I want to thank her for her help, and my lips move to speak, but no words come out. I’m not sure how much time passes from when I awake on the floor to Mrs. Wong helping me get dressed, but she finally steps back and claps her hands together, proud of her work.
“You’re ready now,” she says as I glance at myself in the mirror.
She moves toward the door, her footsteps sure and unhurried, but I can’t shake the feeling something is wrong. Mrs. Wong never once asked if I was okay, never once questioned how I felt. She just dressed me as if it were routine, as though I were a doll for her to arrange and prepare and send off.
“Time for dinner with Dr. Shadow,” she adds, her voice carrying the weight of expectation. “Your shoes are in your room.”
I nod slowly, but my thoughts are still a blur, the pulse in my head steady but insistent. I turn off the light and follow the same thread pulling me down the hall to my door to get my shoes.
Sixty-One
Ifollow the thread’s pull without thought, each step carrying me further into a strange rhythm. It’s foreign and yet still deliberate. I know the motions, though they feel almost mechanical: the slow turning of the door handle, the soft creak of it swinging open on rustic hinges, the quiet rustle of fabric as I sit on the edge of the bed.
A cold draft weaves through the room, sinking its chill deep into my bones. The dim flicker of candlelight casts dancing shadows across the wall, and I can feel the warmth of my breath catch in the air as I slide my feet into my boots. Every sensation is sharp, heightened, and yet there’s a strange fog that clouds my mind, as though I exist in two places at once—aware of everything, yet blissfully unaware of anything at all. My hands move without my command, lacing the boots with an almost reverential care, each loop tight, intentional, as if they know more than I do and follow the lead of someone else.
