Will We Make It?

I come to slowly, as if surfacing from the bottom of a lake, my mind heavy, my body heavier. Cold porcelain curves beneath me. It takes a few seconds before I understand I’m lying in… a bathtub? A huge bathtub—deep enough that the walls rise nearly to my chin when I try to shift upright. I don’t remember getting here. I don’t remember anything except the raw ache blooming across my spine. I wince and try to lift my head. “Oh, good! You’re awake.” The voice drifts in like a warm breeze from around the corner of the doorway. When the speaker steps into view, she fills the entire frame—her height, her posture, her presence swallowing the space as if the bathroom belongs to her. She is pale, breathtakingly so, with black hair falling like spilled ink against a white lace gown. The gown outlines every sharp angle of her features, the kind of beauty that isn’t soft but cut from glass. Behind her, half-hidden shapes hover—other women who look vaguely similar. Shadows with silhouettes. But she holds all my attention. My lungs forget how to work. “How are you doing, my dear?” Her voice is warm, practiced, a lullaby stretched thin. She approaches the bathtub and sits on its edge as though she’s done this countless times. I try to answer, but my breath dissolves the moment her eyes meet mine. Something in my body reacts—like the air has thickened. She chuckles, and the sound sends warmth shivering down my skin. “That’s alright, lovely. This happens to everyone we find.” Everyone we find. The words echo but don’t attach to meaning, not yet. The shadows behind her resolve into two other women. They step forward in near-synchronized movements. They really do resemble her, but each warped by one small difference: the one on the left has auburn hair instead of black; the one on the right has a neck noticeably shorter, her collarbones sitting high. “Hello, dear,” auburn hair says with honey in her tone. “It’s lovely to see you,” short-neck whispers. When she smiles, I swear I glimpse sharp teeth—needle-sharp—before she blinks them away, replacing them with ordinary, harmless ones. My heart stutters. Did I imagine it? I must have. The first woman turns back to me. “Anyways, you may call me Mistress.” She gestures to auburn hair. “My sister here is Madame.” A gesture to short-neck. “And my other sister is Ma’am. Do I make myself clear?” I try again for words. A yes, a nod, anything. But my voice refuses to participate. So I nod. Mistress leans in. Her hand is slim but warm as it cups my cheek. The contact works like a switch flipped inside me—a surge of warmth courses through my body, filling my limbs, loosening knots I didn’t know were there. My eyes flutter. I don’t want her to stop. But she pulls away gently and smiles, soft and approving. “When you can get up, food will be brought here for you.” Then she rises and sweeps out of the bathroom with graceful finality. Madame and Ma’am attempt the same smile she gave me, but theirs are warped, uncanny—like masks copied too many times. Something about each of them feels wrong. They slip out after her. Silence folds in on itself. I exhale and sink deeper into the tub, letting my eyes close. That warmth lulls me, pulls me down. Sleep edges in. Click. My eyes snap open. The sound is tiny, but its implications roar through me. A lock. Fear blooms sharp and fast in my chest, a flower of panic forcing me awake. Did they just lock me in here? Adrenaline surges. I grip the smooth sides of the tub and try to pull myself upward. Sitting here is like being swallowed by a giant basin—the rim sits at my eye level. I’m not short. The tub is massive. Disproportionate. Designed for someone—or something—bigger than me. My legs dangle uselessly at first, numb and jelly-soft. I shake them, coaxing them back to life until pins and needles stab through my feet. Pain—but a good kind. Human. Real. “Okay,” I whisper, or try to. What comes out is a broken croak, barely above a humming coo. My throat feels scraped raw. I need to practice speaking before they return; otherwise I’ll embarrass myself. The thought seems absurdly trivial given the circumstances, but it sticks. Maybe focusing on something small keeps the panic at bay. The room is colder than I realized. The porcelain leeches warmth from my back. No windows. No mirrors. The only exit is the door they just locked. I swallow hard. Try again. “Hh—” Nothing. Ch ch. Click. Another sound from the door. I freeze. My legs tingle with returning sensation. My arms tremble as I push myself upright, standing on wobbling knees. I brace against the slippery edge of the tub and manage to haul myself halfway up. From the thin slit of the cracked door, I spot a single pale blue eye peeking in. It widens. A small gasp. Then the door snaps shut. “W… weh… wai—” I force the word out, tiny and mouse-like but real enough to hear. The handle jiggles. Stops. Then slowly turns. When the door opens, a girl slips in—a girl about my height, maybe a year or two younger. Her hair is icy blonde, braided into two thick, messy ropes down her shoulders. She clutches a tray of food in one hand, the door handle in the other. “It usually takes people much, much longer to come to their senses here,” she whispers. Her voice is so soft it barely exists. She offers me a tentative smile. But beneath it… secrets. Fear. Something unreadable flickering in her eyes. “H…hi…” I manage, the word scraping out of me like a stone dragged across pavement. I take a step toward her—too soon. My legs buckle and I pitch forward. The girl gasps and drops the tray, lunging to catch me. Her arms are thin but surprisingly steady as she manages to slow my fall just enough to keep my head from hitting the floor. “MISSY!” A sharp voice slices through the air. The girl—Missy—flinches so hard I feel it through her hands. “M… Missssssy?” I croak, looking up at her. She nods quickly, panic shining in her wide eyes. Another figure appears in the doorway like summoned anger. Ma’am. Her eyes are venomous slits directed entirely at Missy. “Missy, what are you doing?” she snaps. Missy shrinks, shoulders folding in like she’s trying to make herself smaller. I push myself out of her arms to see better. My knees tremble but hold long enough for me to brace one hand against the cold tile. “Hi,” I say. A clean, stutter-free syllable. Pride sparks in my chest. Ma’am actually jumps, startled. Her entire demeanor flips in an instant—venom to honey-coated warmth. “Oh, hello there, dear! What are you doing on the floor?” she gushes. “And you’ve got your voice back, that’s terrific!” I manage to get my legs under me and stand. Somehow. My vision wobbles at the edges, but I stay upright. I meet Ma’am’s eyes with a shaky smile. For a fraction of a second, I see pure rage flash within them, molten and ugly, before she smothers it under that sugary façade. She’s good. Too good. I reach a hand back toward Missy, who is still trembling. She looks at me, startled, then comforted—briefly. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, she takes my hand. But I can feel she’s intentionally not putting any weight on me, like she’s afraid to disturb me or misstep. “Missy,” I say again, testing my voice. She nods but doesn’t speak. She gives my hand a quick squeeze before releasing it and turning toward Ma’am. “Missy,” Ma’am says sweetly, “you’ll need to pick this up, okay? Mistress would be very upset this happened.” There’s an edge under her sweetness, sharp and cold. I glance toward the mess of spilled food on the floor. Missy crouches immediately, trembling fingers working to gather the pieces. I can feel Ma’am’s venom aimed at her, even when her expression is directed at me. “Ma’am,” I say, words thick but emerging. “I fell. Missy c…caught me.” Ma’am’s smile widens, all gleaming politeness. “That is very kind of Missy. She’s not in trouble, don’t worry, dear. In fact, I’m going to tell Mistress how thoughtful Missy was.” But her tone—when directed toward Missy—shifts again. A razor hidden under velvet. I don’t like it. “C… cold,” I say, arms wrapping around myself. “Oh! Would you like a blanket? Of course, we can find you one.” She beams. I nod, feeling suddenly too aware of the room. The small size. The lack of windows, lack of mirrors, lack of anything except tile, porcelain, and locked doors. A bathroom made into a holding cell. Missy looks at me once more, gives me a tiny smile—sad, apologetic—and then hurries out, slipping around Ma’am as though avoiding a storm front. Ma’am remains for a moment, looking flustered, uncertain what to do with me. But then— A change in the air. A pressure shift. A presence hits me from the hallway, thick and warm and commanding. Mistress. Her aura rolls in like a wave, smoothing something inside me that had been jagged. My legs wobble. My tongue goes slack. It’s like she reaches inside my head without touching me. Then she appears, filling the doorframe again, radiant and terrifying. “Hello, my dear.” Her voice alone steals my strength. I feel myself sinking, knees folding, body softening. I drop to the floor before I can stop it, staring up at her like she’s the only thing in the room. “Was Missy causing you trouble?” I suck in a huge breath, trying to gather the will to speak through the haze she casts over me. “N…nnnnno.” Mistress’s brows lift in surprise—genuine surprise—but pleased. Very pleased. “My dear,” she says warmly, “you’re getting better! Much quicker than I expected, too. Why, I’m so glad!” She claps her hands in delight. Before I can react, she steps forward in one sweeping motion, lifts me like I weigh nothing, and places me back into the bathtub. The porcelain is freezing but her presence heats the air. Confusion fights its way up in me, struggling against the fog she keeps spreading through my mind. But then her hand returns to my cheek. And the world blurs, softens, tilts— I’m out before I hit the bottom.