Dangerous Games

22

She nods. There’s something in her manner that makes me trust her, despite her obvious wariness of me. I let her help me get undressed, then I step into the hot water, hissing in pain as it laps at the welts on my legs. It’s bearable, though, and the water feels good, so I slowly lower myself until I’m seated, my splinted arm resting on the side to keep it dry.

The maid stands to one side, her eyes wide.

She was looking at my back.

“I’ll bet there’s medicated cream in one of those cabinets under the sink. Would you please look for me?”

She nods, moving away to the long marble sink, where she opens cabinets and drawers until she finds a tube of ointment and holds it up triumphantly.

It’s no surprise to me. Dimitri always kept healing salves, bandages, and painkillers well stocked, because they were so often needed. “Good. Thank you. Maybe you could help me put that on when I get out?”

She nods again, then clasps her hands at her waist, lowering her eyes.

I want to ask her how she got here and who she is, but she’s mute and I don’t know sign language. Which of course would suit Dimitri’s purposes perfectly. The less I can communicate with staff, the better.

I dunk my head back into the water to wet my hair, then ask the maid if there’s shampoo. She selects another vial from the marble table, and I let her pour a dollop of shampoo into the palm of my hand. I scrub my scalp one-handed, then dunk again, awkwardly, trying to keep my arm elevated.

Seeing my helplessness, she holds up a finger, then disappears into the other room. She comes back quickly with an empty crystal pitcher and motions for me to sit up and tilt my head back.

Then she dunks the pitcher into the bathwater and proceeds to rinse my hair.

I close my eyes, grateful again, and also worried by how removed I feel from this. From everything that’s happening to me. I don’t even feel any shyness at being naked in front of this complete stranger.

If it’s shock, I’m grateful for that, too, because it’s better than the alternative: that I really am as resilient as Dimitri said he made me.

Because if he’s right about that, he’s right about everything else.

Which means I’m a monster, too.

Don’t be ridiculous. Your brain is dealing with overwhelming psychological trauma. You’re in denial about the reality of your situation and about me. It’s natural to feel disassociated. It’s a defense mechanism. There’s nothing wrong with you.

“Except I’m hearing your voice inside my own head, Beastie.”

I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until I glance at the maid, who looks like she’s mentally casting around for a cross and some holy water.

“Sorry. I’m not myself right now.”

My laugh is weird and out of place. I know this because the maid slowly backs away several feet, then stands there blinking at me and swallowing.

I sigh heavily and close my eyes. “Oh God. I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to scare you. I’m sure you’re probably a very sweet person who had the bad luck to get a job working for a psychopath, and you’ve seen too much awful s**t, and now here I am, looking like a punching bag and talking to myself, and you’re expected to take care of me. I don’t blame you for being freaked out. Just ignore me. I’m having some kind of breakdown.”

To prove my point, I promptly burst into tears.

I pull my knees up and rest my forehead on them, then rock back and forth in the water as I sob, my good arm wrapped around my shins, my broken arm hurting like hell. I cry until I’m hiccuping, until I’m spiritually wrung out and physically exhausted.

Then I feel a gentle pat on my shoulder and look up.

The maid stands beside the tub, holding a fluffy white towel. On her face is a tentative smile. She points at me and makes the “OK” sign with her thumb and forefinger. I’m not sure if she’s saying I’m going to be okay, or that was a really epic crying jag, lady, but she doesn’t look afraid of me anymore, so I’m counting it as a win.

With the last of my strength, I haul myself up and step out of the tub, letting her blot water from my body as I stand there shivering from exhaustion. She rests a hand on my shoulder, and I meet her eyes.

She points at the welts on my back, her gaze questioning.

“Dimitri had a little fun with me earlier.”

She nods slowly, her eyes hardening. Then she points at her mouth.

“I don’t understand.”

She points at my back, then at her mouth.

“Are you saying Dimitri is the reason you don’t speak?”

When she nods, my stomach does a slow roll.

“Oh God. I’m afraid to ask.”

I don’t have to, though, because she simply shows me what Dimitri did by opening her mouth.

The queasiness turns to a hot rush of bile up my throat as I stare at the mutilated stub of flesh that is the remains of her tongue.