The White Games

18) Chapter Eighteen

#12 Imogen Sykes – Day Five - 8:10 AM

I rub my eyes, bleary with fatigue, as I wake up from a fitful night of sleep. Fausto featured prominently in my dreams. Dying. Always dying. Calling for my help, desperately reaching out for me before he is torn apart or chokes to death or  however my dream dictates he will die this time. I'm always late. Too late. I can't help him. I failed him.

I sit up with a sigh, staring at the room around me. It's a bathroom. Misha and Victoria evidently decided that I was not to be trusted and forced me spend the night inside the first floor bathroom. They allowed me take a blanket and some pillows from a spare bedroom to keep myself comfortable, but these amenities have done very little to comfort me.

I stand up and stretch, looking at myself in the mirror. I look horrible. Pale and thin. Blonde hair an absolute mess, and eyes wide and distraught. I look as I feel.

Horrible.

There's a bathtub in the corner, around the blue-tiled floor, but no windows. Misha and Victoria truly do not trust that I won't try to run away. I understand why Victoria doesn't, but why Misha? Have I ever done anything that would let him think of me as untrustworthy? You'd think he would be glad to have found someone that he knows on this island, but instead...

Instead it seems like he hates me.

Everyone does. Whether they're here on this island, or back home in Michigan. No one seems to like me, and I don't understand why. What's wrong with me? Am I not smart enough? Pretty enough? I once thought that I wasn't thin enough, but a bout of anorexia showed me that no one cared whether I was wasting away or not. No one cares in general.

I linger by the door, hand resting on the crystal knob. Why have Misha and Victoria kept me here? They don't like me—they've made that clear enough—but they don't want to be rid of me either. Do they have some sort of nefarious plan up their sleeves? Am I just a pawn in their game?

Well, if they do, they have more than they bargained for with this pawn.

I twist the knob and open the door, stepping into the hall. The dark honey-oak wood is clear and brilliant, like its just been polished. The doors along the hall are pristine and well-painted. The paintings on the wall clean and beautiful. Did Mr. White have these cleaned? Or what?

I wander down the hall, towards the kitchen. Where are Misha and Victoria? Have they left me here? Dark thoughts swim in my head. What if they left, and are now leading someone else here to kill me? Would Misha do that? We were friends...

...But now he couldn't care less about me. I'm well-aware of what he's been like since he stopped being my friend. Cold. Distant. Rude. It's almost as if he's a completely different person. Someone who would have no problem letting me get killed...

I pick up the pace, practically jogging into the kitchen. The room is empty. The large, wooden table is clear of anything, and all the oak cabinets are closed. Did they—

"Looking for something?"

I spin around in surprise. Victoria stands in the far corner, leaning against the wall with her arms folded neatly across her chest. Her chocolate brown hair is wet and cascades around her shoulders as her gray eyes regard me. They're filled with suspicion.

"I was just..." What to say? That I thought they'd abandoned me to the wolves?

"You thought that we'd left you," Victoria speaks my thoughts. Her voice is cold and emotionless as she leans forward. "You really are a blonde twit, you know that?"

I don't say anything. I've been called worse, and this statement might actually be accurate. "Where's Misha?" I ask, staring at the floor. The kitchen tiles are an alternating yellow and orange. It's pretty. Takes my mind off the situation before me.