Opening Up
1616 Words
I drift in and out of something that feels like sleep but also doesn’t. It’s more like being pulled under warm water and held there until my thoughts dissolve. Every time I try to surface, a hand pushes me gently—almost lovingly—back into the dark.
But this time, something changes.
The warmth doesn’t hold.
It burns.
I wake with a choked gasp, back in the bathtub, every nerve in my body screaming. Not the pleasant, melting heat Mistress left me in before—this is raw, searing, feverish pain. My head spins, and I clutch the sides of the tub, blinking hard against the blur.
How long was I out?
It feels like minutes. Or hours. Or days.
Everything from before is smeared like wet ink. I try to grab the memories, but they slide between my fingers.
Mistress.
Her hand on my cheek.
Missy’s wide eyes.
A warm voice asking if Missy caused trouble.
A cold, sharp click of the lock.
Missy.
That one name stays clear, like a single star in fog.
I force myself upright—slower this time, more cautious—and begin the same process as yesterday, though I’m able to do everything faster. My muscles still ache, but at least they obey me. For now.
I sweep my eyes across the room the way someone checks a cage for weak points.
The warm amber glow still fills the space, but everything underneath it is bleak: dark grey walls, smooth and cold; a sink with stiff metal drawers beneath it; a toilet tucked to the side; the massive bathtub swallowing me whole.
No windows.
No mirrors.
No escape.
Except the door—if I count a locked door as escape.
I step out of the tub, testing my balance, waiting to see if my legs give out again. They tremble but hold. I move to the sink, reaching for the faucet, turning it out of habit.
Nothing.
The pipe coughs weakly, like it’s trying not to wake something sleeping deeper in the walls.
I try again.
Still nothing.
Fine. Whatever. I’ll take what I can control.
I start vocal exercises, warming my throat, coaxing sound out of it. The words come easier today, like my voice remembers how to be human even when the rest of me isn’t sure.
I breathe in and open the drawers beneath the sink.
One empty.
Two empty.
Three—
A shard of mirror lies alone in the last drawer, like it’s waiting for me.
My gut clenches.
I shouldn’t pick it up.
But I do.
The reflection hits me like a slap.
I don’t know the girl staring back.
There are huge, swollen welts along my neck—dark red, angry, ringed with dried blood. My skin is smeared with grime as if someone dragged me through ashes. My hair hangs in thick, matted strands, sticking to my face. And the makeup—whatever I wore before all this—drips in black streaks, giving me hollow raccoon eyes.
How did Missy not scream running into me?
How many girls have been here?
How many did they “save”?
My pulse skitters. I shove the mirror piece back, slam the drawer shut, and step away as if the reflection might crawl out.
The doorknob rattles.
Panic surges. I shut the drawer quietly, move back from the sink. My heart slams so hard I feel it in my throat.
The door opens.
Madame fills the frame, smiling with too many teeth.
“Hello, my dear. I heard you were up and walking, I just had to see it for myself!”
I swallow everything I want to say and paste on a polite smile.
“Hello, Madame.”
Her smile widens—approval or amusement, I can’t tell.
“Well, my dear, we will have Missy bring you food soon.”
I nod, turning as if distracted by the sink. Maybe if I seem harmless enough, she’ll leave faster.
“Yes, the pipes have been having issues,” she explains, stepping deeper into the room. “I’ll let Mistress know. We’ll get you someplace… better equipped for washing.”
“Could I…” I start, then freeze. Don’t sound demanding. Don’t sound ungrateful. Don’t give them a reason to tighten the leash.
Madame tilts her head. “Could you what?”
“Could… I get the blanket I asked for yesterday? It’s still really cold in here.”
Her expression flickers—barely, but enough.
“Why, of course!” She laughs softly, the sound metallic. “We totally forgot when you passed out again! Such a tired girl. We’ll get that for you.”
She’s bothered. I can feel it.
A blanket shouldn’t bother anyone.
Unless comfort is something they ration purposely.
I bow slightly—hoping she reads it as respect, not sarcasm.
“Thank you.”
She flashes a bright, borderline manic smile and leaves. The lock slips into place with a soft, definitive click.
I whirl toward the bathtub, flicking on the faucet. A single drip falls. Then another. Not enough, but better than nothing. I use my fingers, scooping the tiny drops to wash my face. I scrub gently with the fabric of my clothes, trying not to imagine the dirt is actually someone else’s blood.
The welts on my neck sting when the water touches them. Fresh wounds. Too fresh.
How long have I been here?
I don’t want the answer.
I turn off the faucet, the last drip landing loudly in the quiet room.
And then—
that familiar shift in the air.
She’s coming.
Mistress.
Her aura pours into the room before she even touches the doorknob. The walls seem to warm. My limbs loosen, heavy, dreamy. The urge to lie down and let go washes over me.
Not this time.
I leap back into the tub and shove my thumbnail into my palm—hard. Pain flares. Sharp. Real. It keeps me grounded, awake.
The door opens.
Mistress glides in. I keep my breathing slow, my eyelids drooping, pretending to be asleep even as her presence tugs at my consciousness like a tide.
“Well, look at that,” she murmurs. “She’s still asleep. Are you sure of what you saw?”
Madame’s voice is small behind her. “Yes, Mistress. But she wasn’t phased by me.”
A low, pleased hum from Mistress.
“Well, looks like I have one all to myself then.”
A chuckle slithers through the air. I feel her lean close, breath brushing my cheek.
“Madame. Did you give her water?”
“No, Mistress. She tried the sink faucet earlier as well. I guess the basin still had a bit of water left.”
A soft, animalistic growl vibrates through the room.
“She’s cognizant… when was the last time she ate?”
“She hasn’t since she’s been here.”
So I haven’t been here long.
Mistress clicks her tongue. “Have Missy bring her some food. She needs to be fed before… before she loses strength.”
Her fingers glide along my cheek. I tense, fighting the pull of that warmth.
“Goodnight, my precious.”
The door closes. The lock clicks.
I sit up immediately, adrenaline pounding.
What the hell is this place?
Minutes pass. Or hours. Time feels unreliable here.
Then the door opens again.
Missy steps inside, cautious, quiet, holding a tray. She looks the same as before—icy-blonde braids, pale blue eyes, thin shoulders drawn tight with tension. She sets the tray gently on the ground.
“Hello,” I say softly.
She glances at me, smiles tiny but real, then turns to leave.
“Wait!”
I rush forward, grabbing her arm before I can think better of it.
She jumps, nearly dropping the tray.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I just… I don’t know where I am or what’s going on. Can you tell me anything? Please?”
Her eyes fill with pity. She shakes her head.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Thanks. And you can take that tray back.”
She blinks, startled.
“I’m not eating.”
Her eyes widen in pure, silent horror. She shakes her head violently, braids whipping.
I step back toward the tub.
“Don’t. Do. That.”
Her whisper is sharp, harsh, desperate.
“Why?” I breathe.
She looks around the hallway outside, then back at me.
“You… you need to be strong here. I can get in huge trouble for saying this. You have to keep up your strength. You’re marked now.”
“…Marked?”
She touches her own cheek—the exact place Mistress pressed her lips to mine yesterday.
A cold shiver blows through me.
“Mistress marked you,” she whispers. “You have to be careful now.”
She checks the hall again.
“You’re the first person to even talk to me here. I don’t want to lose you.”
“But I had to have come from somewhere,” I insist. “Someone must be looking for me.”
Missy shakes her head slowly. “All I know… is that you were saved. And now you’re here. So don’t screw anything up for yourself. Like me.”
“Like you? Missy, what do you—”
She lifts a hand, silencing me. Her face empties, mask snapping back into place. Without another word, she slips out and locks the door behind her.
The room feels colder again.
I sink back into the bathtub, curling my fingers around the rim.
This place is screwed up.
And whatever “marked” means…
It’s only the beginning.
- Writer
