Cinders [Completed]

Chapter 18: Elia's Parents

Personally, I wouldn't like it on record that I "passed out." I mean, losing consciousness in front of the Prince/ confusing mate once is embarrassing enough, but at least I had the excuse of blood loss the first time. The second time, the familiar walls of my living room are there one second - and then the next, my mind has fallen into darkness and I can't escape.

So, distasteful as it is, I passed out. The last thing I remember is the sound of an accelerating heartbeat in my ear and the scent of moss and dark chocolate.

Strange, that it's the first thing I smell when I wake up.

I stretch out my arm with a sigh, searching for the ladder of my bunk bed. I need to wake Lucy up, today is wash day and there's so much to do before she goes to school -

When I open my eyes, I expect to see the grey of my room, or the same yellow ceiling of the med wing, but instead I am met with a deep navy.

I sit up, taking in my surroundings. I'm in one of the elite rooms at the palace. The heavy curtains are parted to reveal midday, bright sun streaming through the windows.

I'm in the center of a ridiculously large bed, so large that it takes me a moment to find the edge. I stand up too suddenly, and my right leg gives way beneath me.

I sit back down against the bed, allowing myself to catch my breath. My leg throbs painfully. Gritting my teeth, I force myself forward to the door on the opposite wall, hoping it's a bathroom.

It is. It allows me to see my reflection for the first time in days.

A yellowing bruise covers my left cheek, where Dad slapped me. My hair is stringy and greasy, and the purple blotches under my eyes are dark and heavy, but on the whole, I look better than I feel.

After I finish using the bathroom and brushing my teeth with my toothbrush, which is, miraculously, resting on the counter for me, I take a moment to examine my hands.

One of them is perfect. The skin is smooth, the nails perfectly maintained. Each ridge is clean, but without the sting of my homemade soap, they're not as clean as they should be.

A lump rises in my throat when I examine my other hand. My index, middle, and ring finger are strangely bowed, and a bright, scarring slash stretches across the knuckles where Dad stomped on it. The first two fingers are still wrapped in a cast, but I can see that the beds of my nails are cracking and purple with blood.

Hideous. Dirty.

I turn the sink as scalding as it will go and stick my hands beneath it, scrubbing violently. Clean, clean, it needs to be scrubbed raw, I need to remove the nightmare of the past few years. Dirty hands imply dirty living, and my hands are almost filthy with it all - just see how the water flushes out the necrotic flush of my skin with a rich red -

A knock sounds at a door inside the room. I jump away from the sink so quickly that I have to hold onto the counter to avoid slipping.

When did my heart start beating so fast? I turn off the sink quickly.

My hands are a burning red, but I ignore that as I dry them. The knock sounds again. I limp back to the bed as quickly as I can, my leg screaming from standing for so long.