The Blood of Rosie

Chapter 5

The girl with short hair mumbled, "We'll have to wash you and have you bathed," as her contemptuous stare peered through the wind. "We'll have to wash you and have you bathed." When one looked down, it was clear that Rosie, Ordep's lowly slave, was at the very lowest of the hierarchy that existed within the Vorna realm.

As I lay still on the plush bed, the weight of their words enveloped my senses and made me feel overwhelmed. I, the unfortunate victim, waited for my death at the hands of these evil maidens in this opulent chamber that had the atmosphere of a prison.

"Reticia, Felimina, get her out of bed and take her to the tub!" stated the oldest maiden, her voice strong and steeped in history. "Reticia, Felimina, get her out of bed and take her to the tub!" Reticia and Felimina had a firm and unyielding hold on my arms.

My bed was taken away from me against my will, which was a spiritual assassination. The sheets, which had been comfortable in the past, now clung to my body like a shroud, serving as a sobering representation of my state of being held captive. My steps were hard as they carried me to the bathroom, and the atmosphere became hazy as they did so.

The younger lady undressed me in a very short amount of time, completely unaffected by my lack of vocal opposition. I experienced feelings of vulnerability and violation as a result of the act, as if someone were attempting to take away my freedom at that same moment. When the wonderful fabric of the dress came off, I was confronted with people who viewed me more like a commodity than a person. I was exposed to them.

It was time to get the milky tub ready, which was a vessel of coerced acquiescence. Although the water seemed like an unfeeling embrace as I dove into it, it was not that helpful. My skin was scrubbed as if it were a valuable relic by Reticia and Felimina, who did so with an efficiency that was so effective that it bordered on being violent. My lowly position within Vorna's intricate system was brought into sharper focus by each brutal touch.

I was unable to obtain the feeling that I was being handled with the clinical efficiency of a product or that I was being handled with coldness. It was the combination of perfumed oils and soaps with the water that gave the impression of pleasure, but in reality, it was merely a mask for the pressure that was present underneath. They focused their laser-like attention on my body, which had previously been liberating, turning it into a blank canvas.

During that particular instant, I was not present. The act of distancing my attention from the emerging spectacle served as a defense mechanism against the invasion of my autonomy. The process of scrubbing, which consists of making everything as clean as possible in preparation for an auction, became an abstract term. I maintained my composure and continued on, refusing to give in or engage in a fight.

In an instant, I was dragged out of the bathtub, and as a final gesture of respect, the water was allowed to drip down my body. Suddenly, a white satin dress materialized before me, its fabric clinging to my wet flesh in a nearly offensive manner. The clothing, which was a parody of modesty, enveloped me in an appearance of innocence while simultaneously displaying the weakness of my attempt to revolt.

Being aware of the garment's symbolic significance, which clung to me like a shroud of surrender, I was able to recognize its significance. The unorthodox woman who refused to conform, Rosie, was no longer a part of me. She was expelled from my life. My body was changed into a pawn, and I was prepared to participate in a game whose rules I was unable to understand. The suffocating silence of acquiescence stifled any traces of defiance that I wanted to express.

During the time that the dress was enveloping me, I experienced the weight of expectation. It was the weight of being expected to comply and play the role that had been assigned to me in this fantastical masquerade. The warm caress of the satin against my flesh served as a gentle reminder that the story was spinning out of my control. In the course of my transition from the velvet bed to the world clad in satin, the whims of tradition had cast a shadow on my identity.

While I stood there, I felt like a delicate thread in Vorna's great tapestry. The intricate mirror reflected to me the spirit of a woman who had surrendered to fate rather than the hatred that had once blazed within her. Within the walls that had witnessed Rosie transformed into a shiny pawn in the game of Hasta, the room that had once been a gilded cage carrying the echoes of my quiet defiance now carried the sounds of my quiet defiance.

***

Three knocks were purposeful and reverberated around the room. The sad rhythm of these knocks cut through the oppressive atmosphere within the room. In the face of the formidable might of the old wooden door, which stood as a memorial to a bygone era, anticipation bowed down. The man, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties, stood in front of it, wearing an exquisite white tuxedo that gave off an appearance of opulence. The fracture opened, exposing him to the world. His chest was adorned with a golden pin, which glistened like a sunbeam lost in the dimly lit room. His breast was ornamented with the pin.

I was the target of his keen and analytical gaze, which swept over me with an invasive stare. As if it were a delicate castle, the silk garment clung to my curves and protected me from the piercing gaze that seemed to penetrate deep into my existence. My entire universe shrunk in that one instant, and my weakness became glaringly obvious. It was as if I were a solitary tree that had been caught in the path of a tremendous storm.

There was a distinct calm that permeated the air, and it carried with it the unspoken consensus that the time had come. It appeared as though he was following the curves of my body with a stare that was so intense that it was becoming almost physical. His voice was barely audible in the silence as he swallowed the words that had broken the final semblance of normalcy that had been there in the room.

Hasta is going to begin in a little while. "The time has come."

On account of the mental torment I was experiencing, it seemed as if time had stopped moving. The curse, the enigmatic entity I had been attempting to avoid, finally confronted me after a considerable amount of time. In the past, the chamber had been a haven of momentary comfort; now, it felt like a void filled with looming fear. I was aware that I had no choice but to submit to the crushing, unstoppable force that was pressing down on me.

Because the truth of the situation was creeping up on me like a heavy cloud, my throat clenched. The damned she, a moniker that I had fought against throughout my whole existence, had become a cloud that was impossible to penetrate. I was left helpless, a statuesque figure, in the clutches of a destiny that I had sworn off, and all of this was because fate had a tight handle on me.

"What do I do?" I spoke gently to myself, my voice barely audible in the immensity of the room where I was standing. In a manner that suggested they were keeping a watchful eye on my predicament, the three young women who were surrounding me wore expressions that were both mysterious and unnerving. Their presence was both reassuring and unsettling at the same time, right in the heart of the impending trouble that was about to occur.

"It's time for the hasta, move!" The authoritative and stern order cut through the air like a knife cut through butter. As she made her way to Hasta Hall, the ancient girl, who was a worn-out defender of tradition, held a baton whose aged wood bore witness to the countless lives it had carried there. The weight of my back compelled me to confront the impending tragedy that was hiding in the corners of my mind as I slowly made my way forward. I was determined to face the impending disaster.

The younger maiden peeled me off in a hurry, and her looks revealed that she was not concerned about me at all. Even though it had been a symbol of modesty, the gorgeous satin fabric of the garment was now lying abandoned on the carpeted floor. It was a memento of the freedom that was passing through my fingers like sand.

In the face of the unavoidable gravity of the situation, I gave in and allowed myself to be pushed into the white bathtub. The water, which had been so calming in the past, now swept against me like a very chilly lover. Reticia and Felimina, the quiet killers of tradition, washed my flesh with a savagery that was almost as terrible as it was extremely brutal. It was the combination of perfumed oils and soaps with the water that gave the impression of pleasure, but in reality, it was merely a mask for the pressure that was present underneath.

Every brutal touch brought my precarious position within Vorna's intricate system into sharper focus. Even though it was a cleaning ritual, taking a bath seemed like a strange approach to getting ready for a dreadful performance. My body, which had been a refuge of individuality in the past, had become nothing more than a blank slate for them to examine in great detail.

My departure from the scene was a silent protest against the infringement of my sovereignty, and I did so by walking away. In a short amount of time, the days of methodically sprucing up for an auction were almost completely forgotten. I maintained my composure and continued, refusing to give in or engage in a fight.

Before I knew it, someone was pulling me out of the bathtub, and the water was dripping down my body like a last relic of respect. I hardly had time to collect my thoughts. The air was dense with the aroma of scented oils, and it seemed to cling to me as if it were stuck. Suddenly, a white satin garment that resembled a cocoon formed, and its fabric encircled me. Since I was standing there, wet and vulnerable, the see-through cloth gave the impression that I was a person who was caught between two different worlds.

Her completely expressionless eyes revealed the clinical lack of passion with which the elderly woman examined me. "Have you no more mercy left?" My pleas were filled with agony, and my voice trembled with it.

As the elderly lady smirked, her laughter echoed around the room, producing a warped symphony that the area was filled with. "Little rat, there is no place for mercy in this world," she replied with a growl that was steeped in sarcasm.

Pay attention. I want to share with you something significant. Take into consideration this expression. I uttered the words, "You shall see me before you while you beg for mercy if I survive the hell of hasta." I did this with a desperate incantation in my throat. It might have been a fierce cry of defiance or a woman's last stand against the trappings of life.

As the old maiden mocked and laughed cruelly, the atmosphere was filled with the terrifying symphony of her laughter. My sense of powerlessness had a nasty aftertaste, and her excitement at my proclamation was the source of that feeling. She yelled out blithely, "Snatch her up before she announces she's going to become the god of Vorna, soon!" She did this while ignoring me completely.

When I turned my back on the lengthy corridor that lay ahead of me, I could feel the crushing weight of the impending disaster with each step that I took. I couldn't contain my anxiety when I thought about what was going to happen at Hasta Hall. A realm of ambiguity lay beyond the threshold, a labyrinth in which the ultimate destination remained a mystery despite the tremendous shouts of defiance that were heard through the maze.

As I walked on, like a prisoner in a procession, my heartbeat matched the unrelenting march toward the unknown. I was moving forward. At the same time as I was being engulfed by the curse, the murky and enigmatic Hasta Hall was eagerly waiting for its most recent victim.

As I gazed around, the splendor of Hasta Hall became more apparent, which was a striking contrast to the melancholy atmosphere that prevailed. The tapestries that adorned the walls of these rooms bore witness to the suffering and surrender that had occurred there.

Within the confines of Hasta Hall, the concept of evading capture appeared to be a fantasy from a distant land. Its fortress walls, which were guarded by the merciless fingers of history, carried the weight of stories that had been forgotten and cries that had been muffled. During this dreadful period, I was enslaved by the curse of hasta, which was a hideous dance of destiny.