Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
I forced myself to move on, lowering the glass an inch at a time. Faded bruises. They crept out from beneath the bandages, around my ribs and spread out like ugly, obscure tattoos down my abdomen and up over my breasts.
But I couldn’t see what I wanted to see most—what I needed to see. I’d spent so many hours beneath the cut of my tormentor’s whips and canes that I already knew the damage to my back would be irreparable. It would stay with me forever, but I didn’t even know what it looked like. How strange was it that I didn’t even know what a part of my body looked like?—how it would forever look.
The need to know burned bright and I positioned myself in front of the shattered edges of the mirror that still clung to the wall. I lifted the shard in my hand behind me; though my hand shook so hard I nearly dropped the glass. Eventually, by turning this way and that, I was able to catch a glimpse of the grotesque canvas that was now mine. Mutilated flesh scabbed and puckered. God, I was hideous. He’d made me hideous.
I dropped the glass and my knees gave out, though I was able to get my hands beneath me before my body clattered and broke like the glass. I sat on the floor, gulping air and trying to stop the scream that rose up in my chest. I couldn’t let it out. I was getting better. Screaming would be worse, not better.
The blood from my finger dripped onto the marble tile, and I forced my attention onto that. It was just a tiny cut. It would heal. Look, the drips were already starting to slow. One, and then another…and then another. It didn’t escape my attention that if Derek walked into the room at that moment, it would look like I’d clearly lost my mind. Sitting on the floor, naked, and watching my blood pool on the perfectly level surface. Maybe I had lost my mind—in my first prison, or somewhere along the road of our escape, or in the dark, dank dungeon.
No, I couldn’t accept that. I was getting better.
With renewed determination, I picked up my shirt and pushed myself up off the floor. And my legs didn’t buckle when I walked toward the door. I’d lost whatever urge had compelled me to the shower, and it seemed like a wasted effort to go back to turn off the faucet. I put my shirt on though and even did up the buttons. The blood smears left by my finger seemed inconsequential. I opened the door, intending to slip back into bed before Derek woke up, but I froze before I could take a step out into the room.
He was awake, and he wasn’t alone. My heart raced, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs.
“Scar, it’s OK,” he said as he crossed the room in four, long strides. “Breathe. It’s just Dr Fuentes. He’s come by to make sure you’re healing well.”
I couldn’t move. I recognized the man now, but I didn’t want him here. I didn’t want him to touch me. This wasn’t better. This did not feel better. What difference did it make if I healed? My body would forever be a horrid mess. Did it matter if my ribs didn’t heal right? Maybe he wanted to check the places where I had stitches. No, I did not want him to do that.
The doctor approached and I wanted to dart into the bathroom and lock the door, but aside from the way my whole body had begun to tremble, I couldn’t move. There was no sense in running. It never helped. It never stopped what was going to come next.
The man stopped two feet away and he stood there looking at me. I dropped my gaze but I watched him surreptitiously through my lashes. He exchanged glances with Derek, but I couldn’t see enough to know what the look conveyed.
“Why don’t you have a seat on the bed, ángel, while I have a word with your master,” the doctor said kindly.
I liked his voice. I liked, even more, the opportunity to put as much distance between me and the kind voice as possible, so I locked my wobbly knees and headed straight for the bed. My ribs had healed enough that though it hurt to sit down, I could manage it with minimal grimacing.
“She calls me Derek, Vicente. Not master,” I heard him say tersely.
“Is that so?” the doctor replied with amusement in his tone and a chuckle.
I caught Derek’s cold glare, and the doctor’s laughter quickly died away. Then I could hear only the murmur of their voices as they spoke quietly—no doubt they were talking about me. I sat perfectly still, trying to make out bits and pieces of the conversation. Though I was tempted to wriggle closer, I didn’t. I could decipher little more than the occasional word until the doctor’s voice rose to an agitated whisper.