Serene Of The Sea

19. Watcher

I woke up long before morning. The drugs wearing off sooner than expected, leaving me with a wicked headache, not helped by the strained rollers. I held down the groan that rose in my throat.
The lights were all out, leaving me in the surreal blue tinge glistening through the window. All the billboards were set in darkness as well, the city outside seemingly dead.

My mouth was parched, chapped lips itching for moisture. I gently lifted myself from the mattress, edging towards the door. I didn't want to get caught, but my body was screaming for water. Glad to find these floors didn't squeak under my movement, I pressed down on the handle.
Of course.
Finding it locked made me want to cry. No one would be up for hours.
I sat on the mattress in defeat, with another book I had never read before, it's thick pages and sleek exterior appealing to my inner librarian.
I missed the library. I missed the access to books, and for the first time, I missed university. Remembering the exhilaration of learning about the ins and outs of the human anatomy. Even if I wasn't technically a human, they had their own form of magic. Trying hard not to think of my desperation for hydration, I delved into it's whimsical story, unable to completely immerse myself due to the persistent ache in my throat.

When the lights switched on, indicating day, I heard footsteps and shoved the book under my pillow, closing my eyes. The faint clicking told me she had unlocked the door, squeaking as it opened.
I pretended the sound had woken me.
"Good morning," Mum chirped, a little too brightly, "How are you feeling?"
I tried to speak, my voice scratchy and dry, "Morning Mum. I'm not feeling so great to be honest. I've got a bad headache. Can I have a glass of water?"
She ran out, returning with an iced glass, filled to the brim. I took it with desperate fingers, spilling some onto the mattress, gulping down its contents in moments, not caring about the brain freeze that prickled my head with icy fingers.
Mum sat and watched me, guilt evident on her features, "I'm pretty sure you'll start feeling better from now on."
Was this her way of saying she wasn't going to drug me anymore?
I hoped so.
"I really need a bath or something," I noted, catching a whiff of myself.
Mum grimaced, "A shower is what you need. With your concussion a bath wouldn't be safe. Anyway, there's a water shortage so showers are obligatory."
I held back a laugh, did she know we were in the ocean? Though I knew better than to argue, she didn't want to risk a chance transformation.

Locking myself in the bathroom I turned on the faucet, letting the shower heat up. Stripping off the ridiculous pyjamas, and yanking out the rollers of satan. Stepping under the steaming spray, I let the hot water slide down my body with pleasure. It soaked through my hair and skin, ridding them of all the toxins of this place. My senses begged me to transform, but I knew I couldn't. My head still bore the wound of my kidnapping, standing as a constant reminder of the bigger situation.
Guilt passed through me. I felt selfish that I should be here, whilst my friends are being tortured somewhere.
If they're even still alive?
Every time I thought about the possibility they're all gone, an overwhelming sadness stuck me with painful loneliness.
Once I was clean, my skin pricking with the joy of being unclogged, I turned off the stream, wringing out my hair. It had soothed my hangover somewhat.
Reaching out blindly, I grabbed a soft towel from the heated rack, drying myself and wrapping it around my body.
I stepped out, careful not to slip on the smooth tile. The mirror was hazed with condensation. Wiping away the centre of it, I took a look at my wound, it lay just on the hairline, a thick gash running from the centre of my head, in a diagonal line to the tip of my eyebrow, crusted with scab. But at least I didn't need bandages anymore.

Mum didn't leave as I changed into a green dress back in my room. I tried not to show how awkward that made me feel.
She dried my hair for me, yanking the brush violently through it, "You ruined the curls," she muttered, styling it into a complicated French braid, running down both sides of my head, forming a singular braid at the nape of my neck. Then she set about putting makeup on my face, I suppressed a grimace, biting down on my thoughts.