SMOTHERED LIES

eighteen (Raine)

I don't remember waking up; only knowing I must have. I don't remember moving to the window, only that I am now here. I don't move now, just stare; my eyes half open, glazed over. I am dead, lifeless, numb. I am beyond cold, beyond hungry, beyond tired. I want to go back to before all this happened. When it was just Adele, Aspen and I. I want to fall asleep; so asleep that I never have to wake up. I want so many things, and nothing at all.

They broke me, hurt me beyond repair. Not physically, but mentally. In fact if it wasn't for the pulse beating beneath my wrist, my neck, my chest; I'd wonder if my heart was even there at all. And any chance of healing, of getting better; that was obliterated. It died the moment they killed him. The moment they killed...Henri.

A wave of nausea rolls over me as I think of him, my throat closing, chest tightening painfully. Images of his face, his smile, appear in front of me, my eyes. Even when I close them the images don't disappear. I can feel his arms around me, the warmth of his skin against mine, the pressure of his lips against my mouth. I don't want to see him anymore; it hurts far too much.

I cast my gaze out the window, lean against the frosted glass. Snow falls to the ground below in a repetitive, endless cycle resulting in the winter wonderland forming outside. Tall, snow covered Fir trees form a circular boundary around what must be a lawn in summer, stretching out to the shadowed mountains upon the horizon. This forest of white is bordered by a sky of grey, one solid blanket of cloud covering the entire expanse.

I am not in Paris anymore, that much is certain, but other than that...I have no idea. Not that it matters. I am not going home. What more can they take from me that they have not yet taken? My life? Fine, take it. I have no use for it now.

This room is certainly more luxurious than the cell I had been in; on par if not greater than the hotel suite even. But other than being largely more comfortable, it is no different. I am still a prisoner here.

The bed is huge, dominating at least a third of the room; each of its four posters almost twice my height. A door, perhaps to the ensuite, lies to its left, the door to the wardrobe at it's right. I contemplate showering; I do, after all, have days if not weeks of grime covering my skin. Doing so would not make me feel any better though; I doubt anything can do that now. But it means I would be doing something, and that is better than nothing.

So I make my way over to the left door, the carpet soft beneath my bare feet, turning the cast iron doorknob to reveal the ensuite I had imagined would be here. I hadn't bothered checking the door of the main room. People obviously know I am here; they will come for me eventually. So, whether locked or unlocked it does not matter. I have no desire to 'explore' this place anyway.

Large, polished tiles line the floor and walls; white marble I believe. A shower stands against the left wall, a bath against the right, with towel racks sporting fluffy, white towels on either side. I strip myself of the sack like clothes from my previous holding place, before turning to face the huge, rectangular mirror lying directly ahead of me. The girl in the mirror can, at best, be described as a zombie.

Dirt streaks her entire body, her hair falling in lank, grimy tendrils around her shoulders to her waist. Bruises flower her arms and legs, one over her shoulder, finishing about her neck. Black streams from her eyes, the remains of her mascara from a night belonging to another world. Her ribs are more visible than she remembers, jutting out above her sunken stomach. The colour has drained from her once vibrant, green eyes, leaving vacant ovals in their place. They are dead, lifeless, as is she.

And the worst part, is knowing that this weak, broken girl...is me.

***

I pull a cashmere sweater from the drawer, blue jeans from the hanger, before slipping my feet into a pair of ballet flats. So many clothes surround me, ranging from casual to formal. If I was here under different circumstances, I might have taken the time to try a few on, with Aspen perhaps. But right now, trying on clothes is the last thing on my mind. I close my eyes against the lights of the wardrobe, just as the slight creak of the opening door fills the room. I know whoever it is, is not my friend, that they're dangerous, but I don't feel scared. I don't feel anything at all.