She clears her throat and helps me back on the bed, and I try not to look at the blood smeared on it. Try not to think about how he used those sheets to clean me.
The girl returns then. I hear her coming. She must be hurrying because whatever is on the tray is clattering loudly.
“Here we are,” the older woman says as she takes the tray and sets it on the nightstand. I glance at the lamp that fell over, realizing there’s no bulb in it. I look around the grim room at the remnants of all the candles. Does he use only candles throughout the house? It’s a behemoth. I saw that much last night.
The woman hands me a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice, and I happily take it, drinking it all.
“Better,” I say, feeling the sugar do its work. “Thank you.”
She pours more into my cup from the small pitcher and I sip that one and eye the toast.
“Go on and eat something. We’ll start in another room and come back.”
“But ma’am,” the other girl starts.
“You hush,” she tells her and hustles her out.
Once they close the door, I put my cup down and pick up a piece of toast to eat a few bites dry then get off the bed to take the sheets off myself, embarrassed of what they’ve already seen. I bundle it inside the blanket and leave it on the foot of the bed then cross the room naked to go into the bathroom. A shower will make me feel better. And clothes. And then I’ll think about what comes next.
But first, I need to see the tattoo. Standing in front of the mirror, I look at myself. No new bruises at least. Nothing fresh enough for me to notice apart from the cut on my forehead. It’s small, though, and doesn’t hurt much.
Will it always be that way with him? A battle?
I take off the rosary and set it on the counter to splash water on my face and dry it, pull what’s left of the pins out of my hair, releasing the last of the twist. I lift it up and turn my back to the mirror, trying to get a look at the tattoo. All I can see is that it’s carefully covered in plastic.
I go through the drawers for a handheld mirror to get a look at it but find none. I’ll have to ask him to show me. I hate that I have to ask him for anything. But the truth is, I know I’ll have to ask for everything.
By the time I get out of the shower, the bed has been remade, the soiled bedding gone, and the lamp righted. Brand new candles have been placed inside the candleholders, a few already lit.
The large walk-in closet is filled with clothes, all new and all in my size, but hardly any of it my style. I choose the simplest sweater and pair of jeans I can find and put them on along with a pair of comfortable, thick socks. I don’t bother with shoes. They mostly have high heels. I slip the rosary on although it’s cumbersome but then I hear his words again.
“I think you’ll do exactly as you’re told.”
I reach beneath my sweater, take it off and set it beside the bed. He can’t seriously expect me to wear a freaking rosary around my neck 24/7.
I go to the door and try it. I expect it to be locked so I’m not surprised when I find it is. I guess he’s not taking any chances that he’s wrong. That I won’t do as he says. With a shake of my head, I turn back into the room, trying to ignore the part of me that is relieved at least one choice to disobey him has been taken away.
My gaze lands on that mask. It’s in a glass box set on a stand and I go to it, open it. It’s not locked.
It’s ugly and beautiful at once, the mask. Made of metal with, if I peer close, skulls and roses carved into it, the letters of the society, I.V.I, the V slightly larger than the I’s on either side woven in with the skulls and roses. De La Rosa. Of the rose. It must be what’s on the back of my neck too.
I lift the thing out and remember how that weight felt on my head. My neck could almost not bear it. But that probably had something to do with the sex. With how he took me. There’s a flutter in my stomach at the memory, and I wonder how I can be turned on by something like that. By someone like him.
But I am. And I’m not going to lie to myself about it. I’ve not been with a man before him so I can’t judge, but all I know is I’ve never come so hard as when he made me come. And even given the rawness between my legs, I’m aroused thinking about it.
There’s another side to this too, though. He was just as turned on.
“Maybe I’m not the only weak one, Santiago.”
I put the mask back on its stand and run my fingers under the small chains that dangle from it, crosses hanging off them. I remember the Hail Marys he made me say as my punishment.
“Freak,” I say to the room and walk to the two windows on the far wall. I have to pull up a chair and stand on it to see outside, and I can’t open either of them because they’re actually bigger windows, but the wood all around the room has been carved to only let in this little bit of light. I wonder if he chose this room especially for me. I’m sure he did. Will he deprive me even of sunlight?
I step down off the chair carefully, holding onto the back when I feel myself wobble, then lower myself into the seat.
He could do that. Keep me prisoner in this room. It would be the same as holding me in a cell below ground.
I rub my face and get up. Walk around. Take in the carvings on the wooden walls. Skulls and roses. Like the posts on the bed. The one he bound me to. The whole thing is stifling.
It doesn’t take me long to look through everything and then I sit, and I wait.
But he doesn’t come for me as the sun begins to descend the sky. He doesn’t come as I light all the candles in the room and wait. He doesn’t come long after I’ve changed into a nightgown and even when my stomach growls so loudly, I’m sure he can hear it wherever he is in this house.
I’m only grateful for sleep when it becomes apparent he won’t return to even feed me tonight.
18
Santiago
Just after dusk, Mercedes stirs me from my fitful sleep, waving a cup of coffee beneath my nose. She's perched on my bed in a tight black dress, looking much like a vampire herself. I knew she wouldn't be able to stay away.
"What are you doing?" I glare up at her.
"Tell me everything." Her eyes are dark, lined with kohl, and she can't contain the eagerness churning in their depths.
"There's nothing to tell." I toss the covers off me and sit up, gesturing her out of the way. "Nothing that you should hear anyway."
"Santiago." She pouts. "Don't toy with me."
I offer her a sharp look over my shoulder and catch her staring at the ink on my back. She hasn't seen this piece yet. I'm not in the business of showing the art to anyone, much less my sister. I can tell she's surprised by it.
The art on my face is my own, as is much of the work on my arm. But it wasn't within my capabilities to tattoo my own back, no matter how much I would have liked to.
"Who did that?" she asks curiously as I drape last night's shirt over my body.
"A friend."
"It's beautiful," she murmurs.
"It's a means to an end."
My ink serves one purpose, and despite what some people may believe, it isn't to scare anyone. I was capable of that on my own before I ever had a single scar on my body. I just don't like to look at the memories of that night branded into my skin, and this was the only reasonable alternative.