##CHAPTER FIVE ( just a dream)
661 Words
It was just a dream.
The monster. The black water. The pool of misery that tried to drag me down until I couldn’t breathe.
I was fine. I didn’t fall. I was okay.
My eyes opened to darkness. Stone above me. Cold air in my lungs. No water. No hands around my throat.
Relief hit me first. Then it died.
The door flew open.
A girl rushed in. Young. Scared. She carried a glass of water like it was holy. She dropped to her knees, cradled my chin, and brought the glass to my lips.
"Drink," she said.
I drank. Water. Cold. It burned my throat, then cooled it. I coughed, then drank again. Because I was empty. Because I was thirsty and too tired to be proud.
Right.
I was a captive.
The dream shattered. Reality came back heavier than the chains. The nightmare wasn’t far from this room at all.
Agony sat in my bones. I didn’t have the strength to fall into coma again. I didn’t have the strength to scream. To run. To fight.
So I lay there.
I wasn’t crying. I made no sound. But tears kept coming. Slow, hot streams down my cheeks, into my hair, onto the stone beneath me. My body was grieving without my permission.
The maid came closer. A spoon in her hand. Full.
"Open," she said gently.
I stared at it. Poison? A sleeping drug? Something to make me docile for the seventh day?
But I was hollow. My stomach hurt. My head was light. If I stayed weak, I wouldn’t survive whatever he planned.
So I opened my mouth.
The liquid was warm. Sweet. Herbs and honey. It wasn’t horrible. I swallowed. Then again. Until the bowl was empty.
Strength. He wanted me strong. For the ball. For him.
After that, her hands were soft. A damp cloth moved over my skin. Slow. Careful. She washed my arms, my neck, my face. She brushed my hair, untangling knots with her fingers.
It should have felt like kindness. It felt like preparation.
She tried to change my clothes. The chains wouldn’t let me lift my arms.
So she ripped them.
Fabric tore. Cold air hit my skin. I couldn’t cover myself. I couldn’t move. Shame burned hotter than the cold.
She didn’t look at my face. She just dressed me. New clothes. Dark. Soft. A gown. Meant for a ball.
Then she left. The door shut. The lock turned.
Alone again.
This was the night before the seventh day. I was certain. He ordered this. Clean her. Make her smell like something he can claim. One more bath tomorrow, and she’ll be ready.
Ready for him.
I would rather die than go to a ball with him.
I had imagined a ball before. Silk. Music. Laughter. A hand in mine that was warm. Someone I loved. Someone who cared for me, not for the mystery magic in my blood.
George.
My high school crush. The boy who saved me a seat at lunch. The boy I wrote about in margins.
God, I missed school.
It’s been almost half a month since they brought me here. Half a month since classrooms, hallways, homework I complained about. Mr. Payton would be searching for me now. Asking questions. Mrs. Victory would have no one left to mock.
School was the worst. Bullies. Exams. Early mornings.
But it wasn’t this.
This was hell.
Bad was an understatement.
I wondered. I just wondered if I could go back. Even for a day. To sit at my desk. To hear the bell. To be Tracy again, not "the girl with magic."
How cruel. This was supposed to be a journey home.
Instead, I was here. Dressed for a ball I never wanted. Chained to a future I didn’t choose.
Is this how I’m to leave?
Not home. Not free.
But broken.
Footsteps outside. Heavy. Slow. Coming closer.
The lock rattled.
The seventh day had started early.
- Writer
