Chapter 10 Royce
ROYCE
Submerging my body under the lukewarm water, I lie in the tub with my eyes wide open, looking up at the ceiling. Agatha’s bedroom door was closed as I peered down the hall, and the rest of the house was quiet, with no sign of Prince.
Hiding in my blood-red bathroom, I started a bath, where I am now decompressing inside.
When I first saw my reflection as the water filled the tub, I was mortified.
It was horrific. If anyone were to have seen me, they would have thought I was fleeing the scene of a mass murder.
Not an inch of my body was free of blood, the top of my dress barely keeping my breasts covered due to the weight of it.
My purple eyes were the only contrast other than my teeth when I opened my mouth in shock.
Sliding the thin straps off my shoulders, I let my dress fall off my body, bunched around my feet, on the floor, where it remains now.
My lungs contract the longer I stay underwater without oxygen, and my arms shake as I stop them from reaching up to grip the sides of the porcelain tub. Counting back from five, I decide if I make it to one, I will get up, but I take my time in doing so.
Five.
I try to calm my mind.
Four.
If I were to attempt to process the events of tonight, it would only cause me to spiral further.
Three.
What is meant to be will conquer.
GET UP!
His voice is back, and my body shoots up out of the water. My lungs gasp, taking in the air they so desperately were begging for with my eyes wide open. The cool edge of the bathtub grounds me as I sit here in shock.
A loud whimper catches my attention. Slowly, my eyes trace over the red subway tiles against the wall. The black countertop is bare, but the edge displays familiar hands.
In a cream milkmaid-style dress, the corset cinched around the waist and the hem ruffled at the hips, his cock forcefully fills her from behind as he holds her head… my head forward, forcing me to watch through the reflection of the mirror.
With kicking legs, I attempt to force him off of me.
Bucking back has zero effect. He likes it, grinning widely and daring me to continue.
“I hate you!” I snarl.
His voice is low, and his response is short but powerful. “Good.”
Fresh cuts decorate my bare arms, red stains my white hair. I am horribly broken and an easy prey for my tormentor.
Loud grunts overshadow the whimpers of distress, and the black bathroom door steadily opens.
An old lady with boring brown garments stands in the opening, watching, emotionless.
My purple eyes move their focus in the mirror to her, to Agatha, pleading for her to help me, but she does nothing.
She stands, still watching, still emotionless.
Agatha was never an ally, yet for a moment I had hope.
Hope for her to save me, this one fucking time.
With a curt nod, her black leather trainers step back, and she walks away, leaving me exposed to the demon.
He is her pet, but if he only knew how tight of a leash he was on.
I hate them both.
His warm cum coats my bare ass. Watching, I can see my lip trembling in the mirror. His teeth become exposed even more, satisfied by my response.
Shrieking, I can’t hold it in any further. “You’re a monster!”
Prince’s teeth graze my shoulder. “And your worst fucking nightmare, sweet Royce.”
This part is embedded in my memory, as humiliation riddles through me, and the memory plays out before me. Warm urine trickles on my feet. He’s released his bladder onto me. “You are nothing to no one. I own you. You are my fucking property, and I will do anything I fucking like with you.”
My foster brother’s words sting; tears prick my eyes, but that’s when a wave of clarity washes over me. This is what he wants, my pain, my fear, my embarrassment.
He will never fucking get it again.
As Prince tucks himself into his trousers, because this tool has always worn a suit, his dress shoes click against the tile floor, and he leaves me defiled and degraded.
I watch as my fist slams against the mirrored glass.
It shatters, cutting into the side of my hand.
Unfazed, blood-coated fingers reach for a large, sharp piece which has fallen upon the countertop.
Twisting my arm, I expose my upper inner arm; the sensitive, thin skin is pale and untouched.
And without a second thought, I shove the tip of the sharp glass into my flesh.
This is the first time I am cutting downward instead of diagonally.
With purpose, but still cowering in fear, as no major artery will be touched.
With no hesitation, I continue moving until I hit the crook of my elbow, blood dripping rapidly down, mixing with the urine at my feet.
I am a fucking mess, but I couldn’t care less.
Once satisfied, I drop the bloodied, shattered mirror shard into the sink beside me and stare back at the reflection of myself.
I win.
He loses.
Because my inner strength is stronger than his fucking pompous asshole facade with those moronic teardrop tattoos by his eye.
Prince gets off on making me feel small, meanwhile I get off on never giving him what he wants.
Oh, foster brother, we can both play games, but little do you know I am better at them than you, and I will fucking win because I am in this for the long haul. Motherfucker.
Then before my eyes, my body turns to smoke, fading away.
The bath is ice cold now, and I am staring off into a blank space.
Tilting my head, my eyes take in the white, raised scar from that day years ago. Each scar represents a moment in my life of great significance. Positive or negative, I don’t discriminate. This one was a mixture of both.
Pulling my focus, my hand reaches forward, gripping the claw knob for the bath.
Twisting, it squeaks, before releasing the warm water into the cool tub.
I feel it first on my feet and legs; lying back, I revel in the relief it brings me.
The pipes vibrate against the wall, muffled grumbles join, and I roll my eyes. I can’t wait for Jerry to fix them.
The balls of my feet rub against my legs, helping the warm water mix into the cold. I do this back and forth a few times before my face turns. The smell of metal begins to overwhelm my nostrils. Once thin, moving water between my toes feels thick and slimy.
Slanting my head to the side, I open my shut eyes, and the room is as it was when I first arrived. No one lurks in the doorway, no one waiting to torture me. Hesitantly, I shift back to the tub, glancing down at my exposed breasts with perky nipples; they are submerged in the water no more.
Blood.
So much fucking blood.
In a panic, my foot kicks up; my toes try to unplug the drain as I reach forward to turn the water off. Removing my toes, the flow of crimson subsides, yet I still hear the sound of dripping. I look around, confused.
An audible gasp leaves me. The once-scarred cuts decorating my arms have split open. A loud scream of terror follows. Why is this happening?
Jumping out of the porcelain tub, my feet slip and slide against the matching crimson tile floor. Reaching for my towel, I nearly go ass over head, latching onto the towel rack. It helps prevent my fall.
Once I’m somewhat calmed, I stand tall and begin to try and stop the bleeding by applying pressure on the wounds with the towel. Looking into the mirror, dark circles surround my purple eyes. My bones protrude; I look so incredibly frail. Vulnerable. Scared. Just how he likes me.
Then, a quick flash startles me further, and he appears, standing behind my reflection, smiling.
“Boo!”
I jump, startled.
Then he is gone.
Looking down, my arms are no longer bloodied; the cuts are closed. My body is as it was.
But the obvious remains.
Something terrible is coming.