I go limp against his grip, his words ringing painfully in my ears. “Take your fucking shower,” he says, louder now. He steps back and pulls his gun out again, standing rigidly between me and the door, his gun a warning that he taps against his leg.
I massage my throat as I step back under the spray, no longer caring what he sees. In my peripheral vision I see rivulets of my blood washing off me and streaming down the drain, but I don’t take my eyes from his.
“Time’s up,” he barks. “Get out and get dressed.”
I nod slowly, shutting the water off and taking the towel he’s handing me like an obedient little lamb. I towel most of the water from me before hanging the towel back on its hook and dressing in the clothes he hands me. A black oversized T-shirt and a pair of grey sweat pants that swim on my radically shrinking frame. There is no underwear, but I don’t care. I bunch the loose material up on one side of the sweatpants and tie a crude knot in the material to stop them from sliding off me.
The guy gestures with his gun to leave the bathroom and I do, slowly and with reluctance. He ushers me up the hallway and back into my horrid little jail cell, and I almost cry when I approach the door.
“Your eyes look just like hers,” the guy says offhandedly, and a lump forms in my throat.
“What?” I remember I’m not wearing blue contacts anymore, and that my eyes are back to their natural green, just like my mother’s eyes. My mother.
“Is she here?” I ask shrilly, and the guy pushes me back.
“Shut up!” he hisses. “Get back in there and wait.”
He raises his eyebrows and emphasizes wait, and I guess he’s telling me to wait for him? But then again, maybe he’s not even real.
“What’s your name?” I ask again.
He ignores me, pushing me back into my cell and handing me a fresh bucket. Lovely. I decide that until he tells me his name, I’m going to give the motherfucker a nickname. The Prospect. It suits him.
“Wait,” I whisper, putting my hand on his arm as he turns to leave. “Why are you here today? Where is Dornan?”
His eyes cloud over as he turns back to me momentarily. “He’s burying his sons,” he says.
I let my hand drop from his arm as a cruel smile widens on my face, so wide I feel like my face might break in half.
He raises his eyebrows as he steps out into the hall. “You’re the weirdest girl I’ve ever met,” he says, slamming the door behind him.
A funeral. How delicious.
The dormant vengeance inside me bursts to life again, carried on the wings of newfound hope, however fleeting that hope might be.
The afternoon is positively luxurious, at least for a crazy girl. I huddle in the corner with my new clothes and the open wound that has become my entire midsection even stops bleeding for a little while.
I miss the sun. It’s bright in this room most of the time - the light bulb is hardly ever dimmed - but it’s not real.
Nothing here is real except the pain.
I contemplate my future as I wait for Dornan to return. I know he’ll come for me after the funeral. He’ll make me pay. Adrenaline and fear knot awkwardly in my stomach as I wait for him to come in and hurt me. Maybe he’ll rape me again. Maybe he’ll put a gun to my head and force me to my knees. Or maybe he’ll carve my heart out and eat it for dessert.
I jump forcefully when the door explodes open, and my reckoning stands there in the doorway. His eyes are red-rimmed and I can smell the bourbon coming off him in waves. It’s so strong, it’s as if he’s bathed in the stuff.
He’s wearing a suit, and carrying a briefcase, and every inch of my skin rises in goose bumps as I smile widely at him.
“Were they open or closed?” I ask, smirking the way he does. Because I know. He’s wearing a suit, pressed and proper, a white death lily tucked into his shirt pocket.
“What?” he asks, slurring his words ever so slightly. I estimate him to be a little drunk, but not enough for me to gain any real advantage.
“The caskets,” I purr. “How bad was it? I bet those boys were burned up real good.”
“Fucking slut,” he rages, dropping his briefcase on the ground. As he storms toward me I shuffle back, trying to keep out of his grip. When his arms come at me in a tackle attempt, I slither down the wall and dart between the small spot he’s left open beside him. Once I’m behind him he whirls, growling, but before he can stop me I’ve got the chair raised in my hands, striking out with the legs.
It takes almost all of my strength to swing the chair at him, and he grabs onto two of the legs easily. Before I can get out of the way, he’s pushed the chair back against me so forcefully, I become airborne, flying back and hitting the edge of the bed with a dull thud. The pain in my back is immediate, and I slump to the floor, momentarily paralyzed.