Their Wife

Nine

Such a pretty whore. Shhh, stay still.

I woke up gasping for air. The thin blanket tangled in my legs felt like thick ropes holding me down. I tugged and pulled, tearing at them with desperation. I needed to get free. I needed to be free.

Pain travelled up my arm from my elbow as it connected with a sharp corner. It was enough to pull my mind from the nightmares that had followed me into consciousness. The memories that were branded onto my soul. I wished that I could forget them, that I didn't need to relive them each night, but how could I forget the things that shaped me into who I was today? Every slap, every hit, every touch, and every word that cut into my heart played a role in making me who I was.

I clenched my teeth. They may have shaped me, but I wouldn't let them rule me.

Faint pink sunlight shone through the window. It was early morning. The silence and stillness that filled the air hinted that most of the residents were still blissfully asleep. I didn't bother trying to fall back to sleep. I didn't want to fall back into the memories that we're sure to continue if I closed my eyes.

With a groan, I sat up. The injuries on my body protested. They ached more than when I went to bed. The medicine must have worn off.

Cleaning my glasses using my shirt, I put them on before heading to the dresser to search for some clothes. I had fallen asleep in the uniform Henry had gotten me yesterday after tossing and turning for hours. Scenarios of what today would hold had kept me awake.

Relieved to find a set of clean clothing in the top drawer, I changed before sitting on the bed with a sigh. Someone must have put them there after I had left the room.

Dressed and ready for the day that hadn't begun yet, all I could think was that today might be my last day alive. If Henry's warning was true, then all I could do was wait for Ezra to deliver me to my demise.

I had always thought I would die at his hands, even if it was accidentally. He was always sure to drill it into the head of his friends that they couldn't kill me. I wasn't the only one that feared him, so it wasn't surprising that they were careful. A small messed-up part of my mind liked to think it was because he cared for me. It warmed my heart when he used to yell at his friends when they took it too far. It's pathetic, but I liked those moments. I felt loved in those moments.

I clenched my jaw. My nails dug into the flesh of my palms as I clenched my fists. I willed the pain to drive those feelings away. I felt ashamed. How could I ever think of him in such a light? How foolish was I to believe the smallest acts of mercy equated to love? If he cared he would not have treated me like he did.

I let out a sigh, willing the raging emotions inside me to leave my body with the dioxygen. I knew on some level it wasn't my fault that I searched for the good in him. I was at his mercy for years. Was faced with his cruelty and mockery daily. It took less for people to succumb to Stockholm syndrome than what I had been through, but a part of me didn't want to acknowledge that I was weak. Weak enough to try to look for the good in the devil who took everything away from me, who stripped me of the person I was.

I don't know how long I sat there drowning in my self-destructive thoughts. When I wasn't hating myself for wanting to be cared for, to be loved, I was wondering how the Queen would end my life for good. I was relieved somewhat deep down. If I was dead, then there would be no way that I could return to the hell I had been living the last nine years. But that relief came with a sense of defeat. He would have won. I always prided myself in aiming to escape without it being through death, but it turns out I won't have a choice now.

A sharp knock jolted me from my thoughts. I tensed, waiting for the door to be broken down and for guards to drag me away.

"Damanea, are you awake?"