Casting Flames

Chapter Three

I can't remember the last time I had a bath. Back home we only had a shower, and most of the time the water was room temperature at best.

Still, after discovering the small door on the side of the room leads to a bathroom with a tub in it, I run a lukewarm bath. I tell myself I pick this temperature because it feels more like home. But if I'm being  honest, it's because my skin is still raw from the twenty-seven minutes I spent having my face dunked into burning hot water. I'm secretly grateful, however, it wasn't hot enough to leave any marks other than flushed skin. I have enough scars on the rest of my body to remind me of my time there, and I don't need any more.

After turning the faucet on and figuring out the controls to stop the water from draining, I begin peeling off my clothes. That's when I catch my reflection in the mirror behind me, and I'm unable to stop a gasp that escapes my lips.

At first, I think my back is covered in a layer of dirt. But then I realize it's bruises and welts. My ribs are piercing against my skin like blades just beneath my flesh, and my shoulders are jagged and sharp like I've become some starved beast. Even my face is thinner, all the color drained from my once rosy cheeks. I wrap my arm over my shoulder and slide my fingers over the shiny acorn shaped scar. I don't know how long I was in that prison, but I do know that the brand has almost completely healed.

One day I'll find a way to leave this place and my scars will be a reminder of how I won by surviving. But right now, I have to close my eyes at the sight of myself.

I've never really cared much about how I look. What I do care about is how much I've changed. How much they changed me. That's why I decide to scrub every inch of my body over and over, trying to wash away the bruises and the dirt and the scum they've covered me with. I imagine the past few weeks as a thick film stuck to my skin, and it melts away into the water. The Warden, the electric batons, the beatings, the pain, and the darkness; they all dissolve and slip away until the water has turned a white-grey with the filth from my body and my mind.

When I've soaked in the bath long enough for my fingers to shrivel, I step out and wrap a towel around myself. In the back of the bathroom, I find a walk-in closet. I'm surprised to see that it's full of clothes my size and I can't help but imagine one of those robotic soldiers going to town and picking out clothes, folding them, slipping them into a bag, carrying them back to base, and putting them in this closet for a complete stranger. It's an interesting mental picture, one that almost makes me smile.

Almost.

Most of the clothes are white or black. White and black pants, t-shirts, sweaters, and undergarments. The only other colors are at the back of the closet, taking up a small section of the railing. I run my fingers over a red dress, a pink blouse, long skirts and fancy slacks with embroidered stitching along the sides. There are even a few pairs of dress shoes laid out neatly next to the rows of grey sneakers. All things I would never choose to wear.

After little thought and a lot of touching the soft fabrics, I settle for a white shirt and grey pants, uncertain if I'd even be able to manage wearing a dress and high heels if I wanted to, which I don't. I've never been a dress kind of girl, and now, covered and bruises and raw from the bath, exposure is the last thing I want. But as much as I despise the luxury, the pair of socks I slip on feel as if they were made from pure liquid silk, and I can't help wiggling my toes every few seconds to feel the angelic material.

When I've finally dressed and settled into my clean skin, I step out into the bedroom, hoping to have a nap before facing any more obstacles today. But instead of the bed, I find a soldier with short grey hair and cold pale eyes standing before me.

"Commander Jackson requests you join him for dinner."

"Requests?" I cock an eyebrow. I hate that stupid word.