The Beast I Am

Chapter 3

It took another 45 minutes for the rest of my body to wake up, and I felt absolutely exhausted. An accumulation of bed aches, hunger, emotional fatigue, and pure fucking rage. I sat up in the plush-down bedding; a rich purple curtain hung in the corner of the room, the only fixture in the room, it seemed. The bed I sat in appeared to once have a canopy; the posts now were sawed short and completely useless. The room held little furniture, just the essentials. I pondered what was behind the door directly opposite my bed.

If it was a bathroom, I could smash the mirror with the dresser door and use the glass. End this miserable parasitic existence. My mother's voice rang like an original void, deep in my chest, "Down the tracks... Not across."

I willed myself to stand, my bones loose under my skin, making my legs tremble like jelly. I held the banister, shuffling to the mystery door, closing my eyes and prayed to anyone who would listen that there would be a way to end this sick joke soon.

Beautiful, white polished diamonds of marble spread before me, reflecting my frown at the large pale square where the mirror used to be. A creamy clawfoot tub sat in the center without curtains or rail. I frowned, unable to help but smell myself when I reached to close the door, making me pause.

I sighed, succumbing to the desire to be clean. The water was thunderous in the shallow but pretty room, and I couldn't help but hate myself for the shame of wanting to leave such a luxurious nightmare. I tipped a small bottle of bubbles into the water, watching the foam swell, grateful to have some noise to block out the thoughts of Valentine.

The Prince didn't just look at me like an object. There was something deeper in his human hatred, as if I had stolen something that was rightfully his by simply existing.

I took the towels from the vanity, folded into a little stack, hotel style, and set them on the toilet seat as I stepped out of the borrowed undergarments. My cheeks flushed at the most prominent unknown question, 'Who had dressed me originally?' Steam fogged the tiny window that sat near the ceiling in the room, too small to squeeze through, even if I was this underweight.

I sunk into sudsy water, my skin prickling at the heat. Steam rolled off me in waves as I curled underneath the glass surface to think.

There were curtains in the window, which had to be held up by something. I started working my fingers absently through my hair under the water. Appreciating mildly that it was the first tub I could actually stretch out into and be fully submerged.

I'll use the sheets. I could create a rope by tying some strips together. The warm water was lulling me, the slick black void in my chest humming in disapproval at my schemes, determined to convince me otherwise.

I lost track for a moment, coming too again when I noticed the water had gone cold. Sighing as I dipped my head under the water, reworking my fingers through the tangles, finishing what I had started. I counted the honks on the neighboring street as I worked. Eager to have something to focus on. The city was bustling and still the same in that regard, at least.

I tossed the torn, wet hair wrapped around my fingers into the little trash, stepping out and wrapping my body in the extra-large towel. I scrunched my hair, trying to remove as much water as possible, searching through empty drawers for something to secure my hair, and coming up empty. I was on suicide watch it seemed. I moved to my bed, desperately trying to ignore each icy drip down my spine.

I took the bedspread, gathering the silky top sheet in wrinkled fists. Making quick work as I tore long tendrils off the queen-sized silk. I pushed the heavy purple drapes aside, the only dark and broody thing besides me in this light and fluffy room. Revealing a small alcove cutout in the wall, a nook meant for reading or embroidering since the house seemed old enough to entertain the idea of bored housewives and forlorn daughters.