A female whimper shocks me from the fog of thoughts, my mind having drifted somewhere far, far off. Away from my bloodstained body – nearly every crevice filled with its coppery scent.
In the pores of my face, in the follicles of my hair, crested beneath my nails. Even after the plunge into Lord Moreau's reservoir, I can still feel it lingering on me, within me.
But I am brought back into the shimmering warmth of Castle Dimitrescu, the buttery lights of the chandelier dancing off the polished wood of the staircase in the main hall.
And I immediately focus on the pair of stunning, onyx eyes that stare widely at me.
Bianca's flour-veiled hands cover her gaping mouth, her brows tenting with worry. Shock. The usual pieces of her hair have slipped from the braid that has now fallen over her shoulder, gleaming like molten obsidian.
Hurried footsteps sound behind her, and a fiery patch of curly red hair – Gretta – steps out from behind her. Those peridot green eyes scan me from head to toe, noting the remnants of blood, the clothes that aren't mine. Even the exhaustion that clings to my very bones.
But still, no fear. Just concern.
I wish it comforted me, but it doesn't.
Bianca steps forward, holding out her hands as if to catch me, like she expects me to collapse. Instead, she reaches for the bloodied, jagged bone I haven't released since leaving the church.
None of the Dimitrescu Family tried to take it from me.
And I don't want Bianca's lovely hands to be soiled with Heisenberg's blood.
I drop it before she can grab it, and I retreat my hand into the pocket of the borrowed jacket.
"You two get her cleaned up." Lady Dimitrescu orders from behind me, a looming shadow I've come to ignore. But my ear twitches when she says, "And speak none of this to anyone beyond these walls."
"Yes, My Lady." They say in unison.
Then Bianca is taking my left hand, pale and horrid against her beautifully smooth skin; Gretta to my right, guiding me with a hand on my back. They both smell of bread and soup, probably in the midst of preparing lunch before our return.
And they both rushed out to see me. To make sure I was okay.
My eyes sting with silver.
I'm guided up steps, and we navigate through the halls and up another set of stairs to –
My room. It was ruined.
Again.
"They've arranged for you to stay in Lady Bela's room." Bianca says softly.
Again.
Hopefully Mother Miranda's punishment will be enough to keep Heisenberg from breaking down that wall too.
My vision blurs deeper with more tears.
Another room, another little sanctuary of mine – gone.
We must be out of earshot from the family; Gretta glancing over her shoulder confirms it as she leans in and quietly whispers, "We heard about what happened. Are you all right?"
"Gretta." Bianca hisses.
I grunt my confirmation as they guide me into Bela's familiar room, the dark wood and pale navy-blue walls enveloping my senses. I can sense their stiffness upon entering, the very essence of the room itself – and whom it belongs to – still striking deep in their souls.
I carefully peel my arm out of Bianca's grip and aim for the bathroom. I say to them, without looking back, "You guys don't have to stay if you don't want to."
"What do you mean? Of course we're going to stay!" Gretta bites, sounding insulted. "Lord Heisenberg breaks through the walls of the castle," – she continues – "nearly kills one of Dimitrescu's daughters and whisks you away to somewhere; and you don't expect us to stay and be there for you?"
"No." Before she can feel the sting of my honesty, I add, "Because no one's done it before."
Their silence says enough.
I continue to walk towards the bathroom, aware of their quiet patter as one goes towards the bed and dresser, drawers opening and closing with the sound of rummaging clothes. The other – Bianca – falls in line next to me, keeping pace, and even opening the bathroom door for me.
I almost snarl, irritated at being treated like a child, but I still appreciate their concern. Something like determination flickers in their eyes, like mirrored gems illuminated with an inner fire. As if they want to prove just how much they care for me.
The thought tightens my throat.
I pass the mirror poised above the bathroom sink, and I pause.
My face looks gaunt and haunted, glassy-eyed and distant. My hair still retains a hue of blood, like someone had taken the palest rouge and painted it all in my hair, the ends still cradling an opaqueness – like I had dipped them like a painter dips his brush.
It's like I'm covered in a veil of mud and blood, the water having washed it out, but the color itself having set into my skin.
I hate it.
My breathing quickens as I slap on the tap and lather my hands with a bar of soap that smells of raspberry. I claw at it with my nails, trying to drive out the earthly stains; to wash away the tainted color of my skin.
My scrubbing is frantic to the point that Bianca has to step in – a gentle, steady hand on my forearm – and carefully sets the soap down before removing the jacket, and long-sleeve tunic beneath. The tunic was mine from this morning.
Gods, all of this only happened this morning.
Bianca leaves without a word, her gait confident and alert as I know she's aiming for the fireplace.
A huff from the bellows gives confirmation.
The bathroom door is wide open, but I don't care as I strip out of my pants, standing before the sink again as I scrub the soap up my arms, water splashing on me and the mirror.
Bianca pads back into the bathroom, sparing only a brief glance as she draws me a bath.
I try to control my breathing. Try – and utterly fail.
I manage to get the soap up to my shoulders, but then fresh streams of crimson begin to run down my arms. Racing with rejuvenation from the water, seizing their color for the briefest of seconds before turning translucent by the time they reach my wrist.
"Erika," Bianca coos, and I look to find the bath already full, mountains of bubbles along its surface.
It calls, seductive as a moment of reprieve, but I can't bring myself towards it. Yes, I want the blood gone, but I don't want to sit in it. That's when Bianca points out a small drain set behind the tub, almost hidden. The triad of stained-glass windows a perfect distraction.
They reveal the village down below, the sky ablaze with pink and blue and orange and pueple.
Bianca guides me towards the drain, and I can feel the floor dip a little beneath my feet. A small slope to help gather the water towards that drain.
"Here, Erika." Bianca soothes.
I watch as she takes a little bit of the bathwater into an ewer and pours it along the tile. I step out of range of its edges, but watch as the water swirls and swirls down, down, down into the drain.
Where the water will go, I don't care. So long as I don't have to sit in it.
Standing in only my intimates, I look over my shoulder to find Bianca staring.
A little color has flushed her tanned cheeks, but her face remains a portrait of professionalism. I blink at her, and swallow. My throat dry like sandpaper, "I can do this myself."
A blink of realization, but she says, "I want to make sure you're okay."
"You don't have to do this."
"Just . . . don't turn around." She says with a clearing of her throat. "I don't need you scrubbing your skin off."
I don't have enough energy to argue, let alone deal with her sudden bout of stubbornness. So, I remove my intimates and toss them onto the dirty pile. I intend the burn them all anyway.
I waste no time dipping the ewer into the bath water and dumping it all over myself. I start with my head to make sure I get the first layer of dirt and blood off.
I take deep, long breaths when I watch the swirling water turn red for a minute or two. And once it stops, I grab the soap and begin lathering myself until I am covered in a thick layer of bubbles. I grimace as the water stings my wounds, almost forgetting about the many shallow cuts that line my mouth – courtesy of Moreau's 'sisters.' Those I don't really mind much, as it was unintentional, but now I'll have to break the habit of licking my lips for a while.
I grab one of few vials sitting on an end table by the tub – no doubt a concoction to wash one's hair. I pour a dollop into my hand and scrub it through my hair.
The warmth of the water loosens the tension in my muscles, especially my legs. I nearly tumble to the floor, but I grapple for the edge of the tub. I hear Bianca's slippers squeak, ready to launch and catch me. I lift my hand to her.
I remain seated on the edge of the tub as I reach for a bar of soap that smells of roses. I wash every part of me twice. And only when I'm finished do I allow my body to tremble. Only then I've given myself on final rinse do I allow my eyes to flood with tears, and my lips to peel back from my teeth in a mournful, silenced wail.
Once the wrenching, gasping sounds come out of me, I know I cannot stop.
I brace my elbows on my knees and let go entirely.
I allow every horrible thought to hit me, wash through me. Let myself see the many faces of the bodies strewn about the dumping grounds; see the faces of the two men whose clothes and weapons helped save me.
I give a small, silent prayer to them, hoping they find their afterlife. Hoping they aren't suffering anymore.
I don't think I can outlive it, my guilt. My hypocrisy.
How many women have died at the hands of Dimitrescu – and I sat by, selfish? But Heisenberg has bodies upon bodies lining the foothills of his property, and all I feel is rage?
When did I let my morality become so blurred? When did I begin to accept one, but not the other?
I already know the answer, but I don't want to acknowledge it.
Not yet.
A warm, steady presence appears beside me. Bianca doesn't touch me, but her voice is nearby as she says, "I'm here."
I sob harder at that.
"Erika." Her fingers graze my shoulder.
I can't bear that touch. The kindness in it. Her purity of spirit.
I push off the edge of the tub and round the opposite side, snatching a towel from the rack hanging on the wall. I give a half-ass attempt at drying myself, my hair till dripping as I grab the new set of clothes Gretta had picked for me.
I step into the new undergarment, slipping the loose tunic over my head. I abandon the pants as I make a beeline for the raging fireplace, Gretta's entire form nearly enveloped by its light.
Her eyes widen, but I ignore her. I plop myself in front of its mouth, and I will its heat to melt away the darkness of Heisenberg's factory. Crossing my legs, I bury my face in my hands as another sob chokes me, my eyes flittering with tears once more.
I bow my head between my knees, the droplets from my hair kissing my thighs and calves.
I hear shuffling behind me, and my friends set themselves on either side of me, Gretta throwing a blanket over my bare legs.
"We're here," Bianca now says, her hand rubbing along my back.
I try to say something, but my voice breaks and I weep harder.
"I can't bear it," I whisper.
Gretta stills, "What?"
The things I'd seen, the faces I could recall. I can't bear to think what they went through. Can't bear the believe that we're nothing but cattle to these Lords, to Mother Miranda. I can't bear how it makes me doubt everything I've built with Bela. Can't bear to think if she's just priming me for a slaughter at her or her family's hands.
"That . . . thing inside of me," I whimper, running my hands over my face, my fingers through my hair.
"Erika," My name is a sigh on Bianca's lips, as if she sounds pained.
"They've been telling me that my father trained me to keep the monster inside of me at bay." I sniffle. "I always thought it was just my anger, my focus. But today . . . I've never experienced anything like that. It was primal and fierce, focused, and destructive."
My feelings had been real – my terror and anger and desperation had all been human, ordinary feelings. But as soon as I loosened that leash –
"But as soon as I focused . . . those feelings vanished. I could feel myself becoming something else. Something that did not understand hate or love or fear or grief. And that scared me more than anything else."
That utter lack of feeling . . .
I whimper into my palms.
"You did what you had to do to survive, Erika."
I shake my head, each breath shuddering my shoulders. "It's not that. It scares me how good it felt, to be so removed."
I feel them both stiffen. I let out a wrenching cry.
It felt good.
It felt good to escape my own mind, my earthly bindings and responsibilities. All that weight, the echoing thoughts, the hated and guilt that slices into me like knives – they had vanished. I could see and feel nothing but the plan that laid itself before me with brutal clarity.
And it had been so seductive, so freeing and lovely, that I'd known I had to keep that, thing, contained. My father knew it too. Maybe he did it to save me from myself.
A horrible thought creeps into my mind – a wondering if my father even truly loved me, or if he just feared the monster inside of me. A monster he didn't know where it came from. But understood it enough to push me through such rigorous trainings to keep it exhausted. Keep it at bay, so as to not give it any attention, feed it any thought.
Bianca's arms slid around me, and she pulls herself closer to me, resting her chin on my right shoulder. I don't fight it, not as she tucks her head into the crook of my neck. Not as I feel her strength and warmth.
"What if neither of my parents ever loved me?" I whisper.
Despite the fire's presence, my entire body, right down to my bones, trembles.
Gretta scoots closer and takes my fisted hand in hers. She begins to massage them, and I realize I've clenched them hard enough to leave purple crescents in my palms.
"They do love you, Erika. You have to believe that." Bianca says.
"I did."
"You should." Bianca lifts her head and adjusts her seat, and when she looks to me, her eyes are lined with silver. "I cannot speak for your mother, but I can see the echoes of your father's love through you." She wipes away one of my tears with her thumb, a motherly gesture so reflexive and sure. "You might think he only cared about your, 'monster,' but I know he loved you more than anything."
"How can you tell?" I rasp.
Her eyes glimmer with pain for me.
"I didn't just leave my family because we needed the money. I left because I didn't belong." She hooks a section of hair behind her ear. "I came from a very traditional household. My father's word was law within our walls. I constantly retaliated, fighting even the most basic freedoms and independence; and my mother would often come to my defense – tell him it's common and normal, and I'll grow out of it. And she'd pay the price with bruised skin and blood splattered walls. Yet she never once disgraced me, never once blamed me for being . . . me. But I didn't want her to be in such pain, especially if I was the cause, so when I told them I was leaving, I experienced my father's rage firsthand. And I was happy, because he didn't attack my mother. and even his physical blows didn't scare me enough to stop being who I was." Behind her full lips, her tongue runs across her front teeth. "I hadn't written to them I months. I never went to visit. I was hoping that they'd be happy and move on."
Her onyx eyes look to the fire, and the light reflects the gold fragments within.
"But one day, when I returned, I found my mother's body lying at the center of an empty house."
The world shifts beneath me.
"She'd been there a while – her eyes and tongue gone from rats. And no one came to check on her. No one even knew because my father left the village one day, and never looked back."
I'm frozen. I had no idea – how many times had she insisted I teach her some defense techniques? How many times did she practice, even without my watching? How many times had I seen her spar until she physically collapsed to the floor?
She kisses the back of my hand. "Your father gave you skills to make you strong. My father only gave me doubt, and disappointment. He was a pathetic man who wanted power. Yours gave you your own power. I cannot speak for your mother, but I know fathers are supposed to be kind. Fathers are supposed to protect. Fathers are supposed to raise you. You were protected by him until your own fire could burn. He raised you to speak your voice, and fight for what is right. He loved you, Erika. I can confidently say that."
I lean forward, pressing my brows to Bianca's, letting the crackling fire fill the companiable silence. Bianca opens her eyes, and they are so lovely they nearly steal the breath from me.
I lace my fingers with Gretta's, slowly looking towards her. Her eyes shine, unbothered and unperturbed. It trickles some color into my cheeks. She opens her arms, and I lean into her embrace.
My eyes still quiver, tears still spill over, but I feel more settled than I did before.
"If things don't work out with your mother," Gretta softly says, "just know that she never deserved you for a daughter."
Bianca huffs a breath through her nose. "No, she didn't."
And despite all that brims in my heart, all that flows through my body, sure and true and clinging and suffocating, I merely whisper, "Thank you."
