Perfect Flaws

33. Exposed Facade

Rhea

Darkness surrounds me, alerting me, bringing me back to the emptiness of my cell.

I look around, searching for the comfort of the flickering light outside my door.

Instead I find myself in a comfy but stiff bed, with a hollow glow from the closed curtains beside me.

The night before floods back to my mind, reminding me where I am.

Who I'm with.

My adrenaline dies down, the pain and soreness spreading throughout my body.

I groan, leaning over to where I last saw Elijah.
I find the spot empty, no Elijah, no pillow, no blanket, just cold wooden floorboards.

Stiffly, I lift the cover off of me, scooting off the bed.

I walk to the bathroom, seeing the door open and the room dark.

Elijah isn't here.

I look around the small hotel room for a note or any indication that he's coming back.

I find nothing.

Maybe it's for the best that he isn't.

I let out a heavy breath, opening the curtains, wincing at the brightness.

The view isn't anything special, instead, I'm staring directly at a cement wall from the building next door, with metal bars on the outside of the window.

A stinging pain ricochets throughout my ankles.

I look down at my bare feet, finding a series of blisters lining around the edges of my skin.

For the third time since I've been here, I visit the bathroom again, turning the faucet on, letting lukewarm water flow out.

I fill the bathtub just a quarters way, gently placing my feet inside.

I hiss in pain as the water engulfs my wounded skin, forcing myself to focus on the consistent splashing of water from the faucet.

I look down at my arms, finding different bruises of different hues scattered about.

I admire each scrape and scratch, wondering which event caused each one.

"You should probably switch your patch," I hear from behind.

I tilt my head in his direction, "I thought you left."

"I didn't," he pauses, "I got us some breakfast," a crinkle follows.

I fully look at him, he stands in a white undershirt, with the same black combat pants from yesterday. A white paper bag sits in his hand.

His hair messy, not at all the usual neat and clean cut style he always has. Dark circles hang under his eyes, strangely complimenting his blue eyes.

"Thanks," I turn back to my tub, deciding to turn the faucet off.

I push myself up, stepping out of the tub and facing the mirror.

I look at myself more clearly than I did last night, as exhaustion blurred my vision.

My skin has paled, dark violet hues settled into my lips, with cuts kissing my cheeks.

My hair is nowhere near how a royals should be. My eyes seem more dull than the last time I saw them.

I watch my lips form a strange smile at the thought of my mother seeing me like this.

She'd lose her mind, demanding for me to have the best doctor, the best stylists.

My father would keep her calm, soothe her with logic, tell her I'm going to be alright, and how panicking won't help.