Condemned

23 | Sam

By now, I'm sure word has spread to anyone who cares. And I don't why that's such an alarming number.

Prue must have sensed it from the look on my face last night. She guessed correctly and I didn't argue with her. I was tired of being hit, and it was probably the one instance where I wasn't.

As for the rest of them, if they didn't know then, I'm sure they do now. The wolves might be able to smell blood from a distance. It's everywhere now. To manage the flow, I don't have anything besides cheap toilet paper. And—I flip the sheets off me—sure enough, it seeped through my nightgown, and there's a blotch on the white sheets.

I glance at the camera. Yes, he can probably see it, too.

It's here with a vengeance. Cramps, bloating. And there's the likelihood I won't live to see the end of it.

Another wave of panic hits me with that awareness. I'm somehow deaf to the footsteps. Then I'm startled by a knock.

Prue wouldn't bother...

I don't think to answer it. I'm never given the choice. It doesn't open on my side anyway. Trust me, I've tried, and with every sad "tool" I can get my hands on. And I assume, whoever it is, that it's just a warning knock. Their entry won't rely on my permission.

It's followed by a second knock, louder, more determined, and far less patient than the first.

"Come . . . come in?" I call out, confused. Then I take a moment to clear the morning frog from my throat and blear from my eyes. My contacts are gone. One of them tore and the bigger piece fell down the drain. Wearing one without the other gave me an insufferable headache. There was nothing more I could do, and I flushed what was left of them down the toilet.

Scratching pervades the lock and the door creaks open.

"Ivy?" I wonder aloud as a curvy, dark-haired, morbidly well-dressed woman comes in. I can only make out the texture of her hair in the morning light. Of course, it's curled to perfection, like she's going to a club and it's not 8:00am on a—what is it now?—Sunday?

Her giggle confirms her identity. It's airy, shallow, and overly familiar, like we're friends. "There's doubt in your voice. I didn't think you could forget me? So soon?"

Her presence should come as no surprise. Still, something seems off. She's not spitting venom—yet—and it makes me wonder why. She always seemed to use honey rather than vinegar with me, which was, now that I think about it, a bit foreboding under the circumstances.

Now she has an actual reason to despise me, and the feeling is mutual and then some. I wish she would just cut the crap. If this is her revenge, and that's why I'm here, or part of the reason I'm here, let's just get on with it already.

I sit up all the way and scoot against the wall, making sure to bundle the sheets into my lap. "I can't see very well," I let her know, and I don't return any of her fake kindness. "If you want better recognition, why don't you people dig up my glasses. I'm sure that's within your power."

"We're asking for favors? Already?" she says through another bless-your-heart laugh. "And, silly me, I thought I went out of my way as it is. As they say, no good deed goes unpunished."

She approaches my cot and tosses a reusable shopping bag down beside me. I peek inside and see a package of cheap white underwear and some generic maxi pads. Then she strolls to a spot on the opposite wall and leans against it, crossing her arms and slippered feet—purple and fuzzy, and like she just pulled them out of their designer box.

She must live here . . . and I bet she doesn't have to go to work or school. It would be beneath her, to struggle like that.

"You're not even going to say thanks?" she prompts me, like I'm five.