Peering over my shoulder, it’s hard to make out his form as he zips around the kitchen. Part of me wants to go back into his little bubble of power. The other is screaming for me to scrub my hands raw.
I head straight through my room to my bathroom and do just that.
Blood has never bothered me before, but something about seeing my palms covered in what I first thought was Creed’s blood to now knowing it’s some stranger’s makes my stomach sink.
Did they try to hurt him?
Did he have to defend himself?
Why didn’t he take any of us with him?
What if he had died?
Why is my chest caving in?
The questions continue to filter through my mind as I rotate between scrubbing my hands with my fingernails, to cleaning underneath them.
Eventually, the water turns from pink to clear, but nothing about that clears my mind. I chase the lingering feeling of Kyzen’s kiss, but my own thoughts continue to ruin it.
I slam the faucet off as I grip the counter and try to catch my breath.
My head bows as my fingers tingle.
A smudge of red on my shirt has me shoving away from the sink and ripping the fabric over my head.
Everything inside of me goes cold as I take in my reflection in the mirror.
I’ve intentionally avoided looking at myself. The one glimpse I got when I showed the others my bruises was more than enough.
A sob threatens to crawl out of my throat as I run my shaking hand down my stomach, then my arms. The impressions are growing fainter, but right now, they’re still clear on my face, reminding me that if we fail, my body may soon enough be this color permanently.
My hands catch me as I tilt forward, and vibrations pass through my clenched fingers. My chest feels like it’s about to split me in two with how fast it’s rising and falling, uncoordinated with the erratic beat of my heart.
I rip my eyes from my reflection.
Unfortunately, they fall to my full-length mirror a few feet away, which provides the smallest view of my right shoulder blade.
I’ve completely avoided looking at my back. For good reason.
I was petrified about what the sight of myself might do to me.
Now I can’t look away.
My body pivots until I get a full view of my back. The slashes aren’t an angry red but a pale pink. They may obscure the others that were already there, but I have them mapped out in my mind.
The bruises hide the center points of three of the marks, but where they start, end, and the fourth across my lower back, stick out clearly.
The longer I stare, the image changes.
My blood slithers down my back. The bathroom walls become clay stone. Instead of my mirror, it’s a post.
The crack of the whip rings in my ears and I flinch at the sound.
No.
Everything within me starts to sting and quiver as I attempt to keep my mind from going where it’s going.
No matter how hard I fight it, the unrelenting pressure in my chest steals all my attention. That distraction allows my mind to spiral into one of many events I’ve tried tirelessly to block out.