Poor Missy
1208 Words
I come back to consciousness slowly.
Not the sudden kind of waking—more like surfacing through deep water. Every sound feels distant and muffled until it clicks sharply into place.
Breathing.
Not mine.
I open my eyes.
Mistress stands only a few feet away, half-shadowed by candlelight. She’s motionless, watching me the way someone might watch a fire—intently, thoughtfully, with an odd fondness.
“You’re awake,” she says softly.
Her voice sinks into me like warm syrup.
I jolt upright, or try to—my wrists jerk against iron restraints above my head. The sound of metal scraping stone echoes too loudly in the silence.
Mistress tilts her head slightly, lips curving.
“No need to panic,” she murmurs. “You’re safe here.”
I laugh once—sharp, humorless. “Safe? You chained me to a wall.”
Her eyes flick to the restraints. “A precaution.”
“Against what? Me running away again? Or me not eating your disgusting food?”
Her smile widens slowly. “Ah. So you did taste it.”
“Barely.” I grimace. “It tasted like battery acid and sadness.”
She actually huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s fortified. For your health.”
“My health,” I repeat, deadpan. “Right.”
“Your sarcasm is noted,” she says, drifting closer—too graceful, too smooth. “But you do need strength. You burn through it quickly.”
“I’m not a furnace,” I mutter.
“Humans are.”
I freeze.
She doesn’t notice—no, she does notice, but pretends she doesn’t. Her fingers rise to brush a loose strand of hair from my face. I try to turn away, but her touch is feather-light and surprisingly gentle.
“You frightened us,” she says softly. “Running off like that.”
“I frightened you.” I can’t help the shock in my voice. “I thought you’d be angry.”
“Angry?” Her brows lift. “No. Disappointed, perhaps. Concerned.” She studies me. “You are a little… fragile.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“You are,” she insists, almost sweetly. “Look at you.”
I do. My body is shaking—worse than I realized. My skin is pale, lips dry, a cold sweat covering me. I look like I barely survived something.
Maybe I did.
Then something shifts in the room.
The air thickens—warm at first, then dizzyingly sweet. Like perfume. Like heat. Like sinking into something soft.
No—no, no, no—
Mistress moves closer, inches now. “I need to check something.”
“I don’t think—”
But my voice dissolves as her presence wraps around me like a warm tide.
My eyelids drop. My limbs go slack.
Not unconscious—just… pinned. From the inside out.
“You’re resisting,” she murmurs, almost pleased. “That’s good. Stay just like that.”
I try to speak, to warn myself, to run—but nothing responds.
She slips one hand behind my jaw, tilting my head gently to the side. Her breath touches my neck, warm and deliberate.
I feel her smile against my skin.
“There you are,” she whispers.
Then the pain hits.
Not sharp—deep. Sinking. Pulling.
Her mouth clamps to my neck, not biting sharply but breaking through skin with terrifying ease. My body shudders violently, but I can’t move, can’t scream, can’t do anything but feel as warmth spills down my collarbone and her breath hitches in satisfaction.
I hear her drink.
Hear her swallow.
Hear myself whimper in my own mind, trapped behind a wall of her energy.
My heartbeat slows. My vision blurs. Heat drains from my fingers.
She feeds for what feels like forever—
—and then abruptly stops.
Mistress pulls away and exhales, a quiet hum of pleasure leaving her lips. “Good girl.”
My stomach flips. My mind snarls. I can’t move.
Not yet.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, looking at me like she’s memorizing the sight.
“You’re very sweet,” she murmurs. “I could have easily lost myself.”
Great. Comforting.
She leans forward and presses two fingers to the wound. Warmth flows back in—a dizzying, tingling sensation that knits the skin together. But it doesn’t fix the weakness. Doesn’t fix the tremble.
“There.” Her voice softens. “You did beautifully.”
I want to say f**k you, but I can’t form the words.
Mistress trails her fingers down my arm, testing my limpness.
“You’ll rest here for a while,” she says. “I’ll return before nightfall.”
And then—
She leaves.
Just like that.
Her presence withdraws instantly, like someone snapping their fingers. The warmth goes with her. The invisible weight lifts.
I collapse forward, gasping.
My limbs are weak, shaking, but I’m not gone. Not empty. Not broken.
Just drained.
And furious.
“Okay,” I breathe, swallowing bile. “No more waiting.”
The chains are old. Rusted. The hinges loosened by who knows how many victims before me. And I’m small enough to twist my wrists, angle them, press bone against metal.
It hurts.
A lot.
But after minutes of grinding pain and sheer panic-fueled determination—
The left shackle pops open.
My wrist comes free so suddenly I almost fall.
The second one is easier.
I drop to the floor on my hands and knees, panting, the world shimmering sideways for a moment. But I’m free.
I’m actually free.
The door creaks.
I jerk upright, stumbling back from the wall, ready to run—
Missy stands in the doorway, tray in hand.
Her eyes go wide.
“Oh—oh no—no no no—” She drops the tray, hands flying to her mouth. “You’re— you’re up? And—and standing? And not chained—oh gods, oh gods, Madame’s going to—”
She starts hyperventilating.
I lift a hand, shakily. “Missy—hey—stop. Breathe.”
She does the opposite, collapsing to her knees. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry about earlier—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to hurt you—I just—Madame was angry and I panicked and I—”
Her voice breaks.
“Missy.” I kneel in front of her despite my head swimming. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” she whispers, trembling. “You’re not supposed to be awake.”
Her eyes lift slowly, terrified, pleading.
“You’re not supposed to be free.”
I swallow hard.
“I’m leaving, Missy.”
She flinches. “Please don’t say that.”
“I have to.”
“You don’t understand.” She looks toward the hallway, voice breaking. “If they find you out of chains—if they think I helped—if they think I disobeyed—”
“I won’t let them hurt you,” I promise, even though I’m not sure I can promise anything right now.
But Missy stares at me like I’ve spoken pure nonsense.
“They always hurt us,” she whispers.
- Writer
