A few days later, a woman with long blonde hair and wearing all black opens the door to Mona's room. The darker woman sits up slowly, propping herself up on her elbows. She eyes the blonde suspiciously as she approaches. When she gets closer, Mona notices how much muscle definition she has. She has the body to be a dancer.
"My name is Trish," she says as she brings a few bags further into the room. "I believe Dante told you that I was getting your things?"
Taking advantage of finally being able to make small movements, Mona nods her head. Trish drops the few black duffle bags beside the dresser and then motions to the chair in the corner. When Mona nods her head again, she sits down and crosses her legs as she sits.
"You look like you're feeling a little better. I popped in on you a few days after they brought you here. You looked like death. Still kind of do."
Mona gives a weak smile since she can't yet laugh. There isn't a doubt in her foggy mind that she looks terrible. She certainly still feels like death. It was bad enough that a few times she has caught Dante or Nero looking at her like she's a pitiful dying kitten.
I feel like death, Mona writes on her paper.
"Still can't talk?"
Trish reaches over and grabs a fashion magazine from the nightstand. At least the morons got her something to read. While Mona writes her response, Trish silently looks her over. She's still covered with bruises and bandages are still on her arms. Her hair is a greasy and ratty mess, but it looks as though she's tried to tame it down.
No. I sound awful when I try. Not to mention it still hurts.
Trish reads the message and starts reading her magazine. "I imagine so." It would be a pain to try and have a conversation with her.
Mona shakes the pad of paper to get her attention. Do you know when they'll let me take a shower? I smell disgusting.
Trish shrugs. "When you can stand and walk on your own, I guess. Have you tried?"
She shakes her head. Honestly, she isn't sure if she can stand on her own. Mona still gets dizzy from time to time when she moves too quickly. But she gets even dizzier when she things about the crusted blood in her hair and on her skin.
"Well, come on. We'll test out your legs," Trish says as she stands up. She pulls back Mona's blankets. Her legs are well defined with strong thighs. Her feet, however, are not well taken care of: Trish is certain Mona has never had a pedicure in her life.
Mona slowly swings her legs around to the side of the bed and rests her feet on the cold wood floor. She never did ask which one of the boys changed her into a pair of boxers and a football jersey. She doesn't want to think about which one of them saw her completely naked. Trish grabs the back of Mona's elbows and gives her a pull as Mona makes to stand. If the situation were different, she would laugh at the fact that her legs are shaking like Ariel's in The Little Mermaid.
"Whoa there, Bambi. Easy." She keeps her hands wrapped around Mona's arms and waits for her to steady. "Do you hurt at all?"
After a few moments of extreme concentration on her pain levels, Mona shakes her head no. It's an odd transition from going from being in constant pain to realizing there is no pain from standing.
"Okay, then we're going to take some steps and see how you handle that," Trish explains as she lets go of the dancer's bruised elbows.
Without hesitation, Mona starts to walk forward. She winces at the moment of stiff knee and hip joints. Her knees wobble once and she starts to fall to the side but manages to right herself. She smiles with Trish as she walks around the room.
"Well look at that. Follow me then. The boys are out, so you don't have to worry about anybody walking in on you. I'll grab the bags you'll need." She walks over to the corner where she dropped them. "You've got some great clothes by the way. Some of them aren't personally my style. I'm not a big fan of colors other than black and red."
The dark brunette gives a smile and a nod to signal her thanks. Slowly, like a new fawn, Mona follows Trish across the hall and into the bathroom. She feels like a turtle with three bum legs walking through molasses. Her mouth twists to the side and her lips purse in concentration as she walks. It's a conscious effort to put one foot in front of the other.
There are a few skylights in the hallway: from the looks of it, it's dark and stormy outside. There are at least five more rooms off the hallway: three on the right and two on the left (including her room(, and one door at the very end of the hall. The walls are a light gray color. Or they could be white and just very, very dirty. The floors are dark wood and in need of polishing. The nearest end of the hallway opens up into a great loft area with a wide staircase in the middle leading to the first floor. Several fans litter the ceiling over the first floor, along with a few more skylights.
Trish opens the middle door on the right side of the hallway and opens it to reveal a terrifying bathroom. Mona gives a grimace at the state of it. Why are men so disgusting? There's facial hair left in the sink, dirty clothes piled in the corner, dirty toilet bowl, toothpaste covered mirror, spiders in the corners, something questionable growing in the trashcan.
"I know. It's not healthy, but it will get you clean. Or give you tetanus."
The blonde sets Mona's bags down on the cleanest area of the floor. She takes out Mona's shampoo and conditioner, smelling each before she sets it on the edge of the tub. Good stuff. It smells expensive. Even after not being washed for a while, Trish can tell her hair is long and thick. Trish leaves the bathroom and shuts the door quietly. She has some digging to do on this Matrem Mona mentioned.
Mona bends over and turns the shower on. She's avoiding looking at herself in the mirror. Afraid of what she's going to look like, she fiddles with the temperature of the water. She keeps her back to the mirror as she starts undressing. Her muscles hurt with the extended activity. The bruises sing a torturous song the more she moves. It's perplexing to her how she can put herself through rigorous training for ballet, yet now her muscles protest at basic movements. Gently, she takes the brace off of her wrist and grimaces at the bruising there.
As cautiously as she can, she steps into the tub and under the spray. She hisses loudly when the warm water rushes over the cuts and bruises on her body. Minutes pass while she stands under the cascade of water before she reaches for her shampoo. With one hand she massages the thick goop into her scalp, whimpering in pain when she finds a giant knot on the back of her head. The familiar scent of her shampoo makes her feel more relaxed than she was when she woke up this morning. It smells like fruit and champagne and she picked it specifically for the way it smells. The fact that it makes her hair as soft as a bunny's butt also helps.
She rinses out the suds after a few minutes of getting the dirt, blood, and oil out of her hair. The conditioner takes a little more awkward finessing to get it on and through her curly locks. While it sets, she starts to examine her body. It doesn't really look like hers anymore. It's covered in abrasions, bruises, and marks. A frown works its way onto her face as she continues the processes of looking herself over. There's a three-inch wide red mark starting from her bellybutton before it wraps around her left hip. She loses sight of it around the side of her body but sees it trailing up her right side before it dips beneath her breast, then to her shoulder where it ends at her neck.
Her hands scrub at it with soap, hoping it's just dried blood, but it stays firmly in place. For the sake of her skin, she moves on. The water running off of her has a red tint as it swirls around the drain of the white tub. She shudders when she remembers how much she bled that night. Mercifully when she rises out her conditioner fifteen minutes later, the water runs clean.
Getting out of the shower proves trickier than she first thought. The slick bottom of the shower proves to be a difficult obstacle course. Hesitantly, she leans over the edge, of the tub, grasps the sink, and uses it as a source of balance to step out of the shower. Showering certainly eased some of her aches and pains, not to mention it erased the spider-web feeling she had on her skin. She sighs and gently starts drying herself off, finding some spots more tender than others.
The wet woman digs through her bags until she finds the clothes she's looking for: her comfort clothes. The oversized white hooded sweatshirt smells like her apartment when she slips it over her head. Her pink ombre leggings are next. She bought the galaxy print as a joke, but they soon became her favorite pair that she owned. She also has them in light blue, mint, and purple. Call her a hipster. The pink fuzzy socks were not a joke. They were comfortable and warm as hell the day Satan fell. The embarrassment nearly kills her as she has to sit on the toilet to get the leggings and socks on.
After standing rather awkwardly, she wipes condensation off of the mirror. She stares at her reflection with glazed over eyes. Something looks off, but she can't quite put her finger on what. It's not her hair, not her eyes. Oddly enough, it's not the bruises. Eventually, she gives up on trying to figure out what it is exactly that isn't right. Sighing, she draws her fingers to her hair and begins to braid it. Her grandmother used to braid her hair for her. It was something the both of them loved. There is no greater pleasure in this world than having someone brush or play with your hair.
Out of the corner of her eye, something shiny catches her attention. There, in the bottom of her bag, is her grandmother's rosary. Mona finishes her braid before she reaches down and picks up the rosary. She has never been very religious, not even when she was a child and made to go to Sunday school, but given the circumstances… She picks up the rosary and slips it around her neck. When her grandmother died, Mona had kept it to feel closer to her. Gran wore the piece of worship and forgiveness every day. She brought the cross up to her lips and pressed a kiss to it, thinking of her gran's warm forehead.
When she looks back into the mirror she lets out a rough scream. There, in the foggy mirror is Matrem, looking back at her and baring her teeth.
Mona is certain she's going to emit a shriek similar to a tea kettle. The frustration she's feeling is nearly indescribable. Having so much to say, so much to get out, and not being able to do so is maddening. Once more she frantically writes down what she wants to say on her legal pad and thrusts it towards Dante, Nero, and Trish.
I am not crazy! I know what I saw damn it. It was NOT my reflection! It was hers. Her face was on MY body!
Dante reads the message allowed and looks at the dark-skinned woman with a skeptical face. Trish nods sympathetically. If she didn't believe her, she didn't let on. Nero watches her with an impassive broodiness. He's always brooding, always impassive, always a pain in the ass. Really, none of them seemed to believe what she saw. After all, she was traumatized, had hit her head several times, was scared, and had every reason to hallucinate what she saw in the mirror.
Dante crosses his arms in front of his chest. "You need to stop screaming," he says matter-of-factly, "She can't hurt you if she's not in front of you."
That's easy for you to say.
"That's right," he smiles cockily, "it is easy for me to say. Wanna know why? Because I still have my voice. Why? Because I haven't screamed myself into losing it."
The ballerina glares at him. She wants nothing more than to punch him in his cocky little face. She's so very tempted into doing it, that it would be worth the possibility of injuring herself in the process.
Well, excuse me for screaming while in excruciating pain. Oh and seeing some terrifying things. I'll be sure to be quiet next time.
Nero cracks a small smirk at Dante. "The amount of sarcasm in her face and what she just wrote could kill you." He sits forward and puts his elbows on his knees. "Look, that demon is not getting in this house. She would have to be some kind of moron to come in here."
Oh. So I'm supposed to just push that totally logical fear that she can kill me aside, and not freak out when I SEE HER IN THE GOD DAMNED MIRROR!
Dante whistles at the harsh language. "She curses."
Trish rubs her forehead and sighs dramatically. "You two are making this so much worse. She was attacked, tortured, and God knows what else happened to her. She is allowed to freak out." She smiled at Mona's thank you. "Maybe," she directed her piercing gaze to Dante, "if Dante would get off his lazy ass and put up some protection spells on this place, or get someone else to do it, then she wouldn't have a reason to freak out."
The older silver-haired fox flips Trish off when she calls him lazy. He isn't lazy. He is a procrastinator. There is a difference. Not to mention he's too cheap to pay anyone. But it's hard to find a protection spell for something when you don't know what it is.
Mona watches the trio argue some more about what she saw and the protection spells. There is something she hasn't told them. Something that is eating away at her. It wasn't seeing Matrem that scared her. It was the fact that she was in Mona's body, wearing her clothes, had her facial features. Only her eyes were pitch black and the veins on her face were pushed towards the surface of her skin and black. Mona was the demon. That's what made her scream. She sits further back on the couch, pulling her legs up to her chest. With her head on her knees, she continues to watch them argue.
Finally, Dante agrees to put up protections spells. On the premise that Nero does all the work. It doesn't take Mona long to realize that Nero and Dante fight like brothers. She grabs a magazine off the coffee table and sneezes loudly when a cloud of dust flies up at the movement. Her nose wrinkles and she gently sets the magazine back down for the sake of her nose. Sneakily, she slides a note over to Trish.
Can you go out and get me these supplies? If I'm going to be staying here, this house will be clean. I can't live like this.
The other woman snickers and nods her head. If cleanliness is next to Godliness, then Dante and Nero are Satan incarnate.