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ððð
Saturday
My eyelids feel heavy.
Insanely heavy.
Swollen.
Burdened.
Like they each have anvils sitting on them.
It's the most unusual sensation.
And, for some reason, everything feels slow. Lethargic. Disoriented.
I vaguely register the sound of soft knocking in the distance. Gentle taps come in five at a time, followed by a long pause.
I think I'm imagining it, almost positive I am, until I hear the sequence of knocks again; still gentle and soft, but my awareness of them increasing each time they come through.
A sea of nothing engulfs me, pitch black emptiness everywhere. I shift involuntarily, my eyes fluttering against the gentle intrusion with difficulty. Sparse rays of light break up the darkness, veiled sunshine slowly eating away at the blanket of obsidian as my eyelids reluctantly part from each other.
I lie there, feeling nothing for several seconds.
No, that's not true.
I do feel one thing:
Confusion.
A shit ton of it.
Where...where the hell am I...?
I blink against an overwhelming sense of disorientation, my vision slightly blurry. My eyes flit around as I come awake, squinting as they dart over the walls and curtained windows in front of me.
And where the hell are my glasses? I could have sworn I had them oâ
In disarray, I jerk upright...and like a brick to my head, I'm rudely reminded of exactly where I am.
Frost's guest room.
Oh, Jesus...
Suddenly, the events of last night come rushing back like a lightning bolt.
I'm all too aware of everything at once, as if a switch just got violently flipped on inside me. I rub at both my wrists almost impulsively, trying desperately not to freak outâand quite possibly burst into tearsâfrom the very visible, very reddened circular marks imprinted around them; evidence that, in spite of my attempts to convince myself of the contrary, yesterday was not, in fact, a dreamâor hellish nightmare, as the case is.
As much as I don't want to look at them, at how unsightly they are, it's really hard not to stare. They almost look like eerie, flesh-toned replicas of the damn things that birthed them.
Oh God, I hope they're not permanent...
As if that's not enough, my big toes feel like they're literally on fire, throbbing angrily as if an ocean of blood is being pumped through each of them, surely waiting to house the world's largest blisters.
And my jaw...oh God, my jaw!
I can barely even swallow my own damn spit without wincing. And I can still taste that awful, rubbery tang like it's glued to my tongue.
This is the absolute worst...
I have to slowly lie back down, settling into the covers as gently as humanly possible in spite of the comfort the large, plush bed offers, unable to stop myself from groaning discontentedly.
Literally everything hurts.
My neck. My shoulders. My arms. My elbows. My knees. My ankles. My tongue. Fuck, even my gums!
The "Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" nursery rhyme pops into my head as if to mock me, the simple, educatory song both a fitting and grossly inappropriate soundtrack for my current condition.
Sigh.
Jesus...it even hurts to do that.
And wince.
And cough.
My entire torso screams in agony, every inch of my inflamed body flinching against the involuntary action. I reach for my stomach impulsively, as if the mere act of touching it will make my abs hurt any less...
And it's then that I notice...I'm completely naked.
The belated realization makes my heart forgo a few beats while delivering the opposite effect on my lungs, and the overworked pair instantly pick up their pace. I frown, feeling the impossibly soft sheets and the weight of the lush comforter on my bare skin far too clearly.
As much as I try not to, I vividly remember that I was only half-naked yesterday.
Well...mostly naked.
And on my feet.
With my arms hoisted above my head in pure agony.
In a dark room by myself for God knows how long until...
The knocking ensues, distracting my already racing mind and making me more anxious. My eyes flit to the door, eyeing it suspiciously as I hear the soft string of sounds yet again.
Very uncharacteristic of Frost.
There's no way it could be him...or could it?
My head is starting to hurt from the latest internal debate that has taken up residence in it, one that begs a single question:
Who the hell is it?
I can't bring myself to voice the words, my state of confusion going up a few notches as another mystery adds itself to the list. I'm not sure what to do; do I answer or not? It's not my house. Or my room. I don't even know when I got back here. Or howâ
As if on cue, a series of distorted, blurry images flash before me, only one thing in them discernable:
Icy blue eyes.
Oh, God...he came back.
He came back and then...and then...
I draw a complete blank. I have zero recollection of walking up here with him, or by myself, for that matterâif I could have even done that after what that motherfucker put me through.
That leaves the only other probability:
He carried me here. Stripped me clean of whatever clothing I had on left and...tucked me in.
And that means...
Shit.
I must have blacked out.
Oh, God...
The realization hits me hard, and the thought of being completely and utterly vulnerable, at the complete mercy of a man who showed me what he considers a mere glimpse of an unbelievably twisted, sinister side of him frightens the hell out of me.
It's one thing to be inebriated or incoherent. Even impaired.
It's another entirely to be unconscious.
God...
I almost can't believe it.
That something like this could happen to me.
Did happen.
It's the kind of thing you hear about on the news. The kind of thing that happens to other people. The kind of thing I vowed to avoid at all costs and set hard, self-imposed rules to ensure I wouldn't be one of them:
-Never accepting drinks from strangers.
-Easing off booze altogether.
-Never going to parties alone.
-Quitting pot cold turkey.
Basically, never doing anythingâeither in public or privateâto the point that I heavily compromise my cognizance and ability to function normally, which would most likely result with me in a dangerous situation.
Or worse.
The stuff they tell women all the time. Things that are widely considered common sense, really.
But to think it happened, anyway, despite my precautions, and under these circumstances, no less...
And, yet, I can't deny that I put myself in this position.
I wasn't drunk or kidnapped or roofied.
I'm here because I agreed to be, even when the risks and consequences were literally spelled out for me.
I...I seriously don't know what to feel.
So many conflicting emotions flood my system at the thought. It makes me so sick and disappointed and...and...
More knocking.
But this time, it's immediately followed by the sound of a lock giving way and a door knob turning.
My eyes flit up to the door once more as it opens slowly, peering over the comforter as I watch in trepidation, expecting no one but Satan himself.
But, to both my joy and disdain, an unfamiliar face appears on the other side...one of a woman.
I damn near throw up right then and there.
Big, dark eyes and chestnut brown hair in a top knot greet me. But even more noticeable is the oversized apron she's wearing, and yet, it doesn't seem unflattering on her frame. She's quite tall and lithe, with a daintiness about her that seems to contradict her sheer height, like a pro volleyball player or a Valkyrie.
"Good morning, Ma'am," she says with the straightest face in the world, like she knows me.
My brows furrow as I try to sit up, my own face mirroring the suspicion and hesitation that's coursing through me, clutching the sheets to my chest for dear life as I slowly die from embarrassment on the inside even though my fingers feel like they're about to disintegrate.
"I apologize for the intrusion," she continues, stepping inside the room. My eyes dart to the tray she's carrying, zoning in on the glass of water. Suddenly, I realize my mouth is as dry as a desert. "My name is Tilda. I'm part of the staff here and one of the waitresses from last night."
And that's about all it takes to make me go purple in the face.
***
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