Chapter 39 Grace
Aconstellation of sharp, bruised aches blooms across my ribs, my back, my legs. Memories of the night flood back not as a coherent stream, but as a series of staccato jabs and brutal pain.
I didn’t sleep. I hovered in a miserable, shallow pool of awareness. Flinching at every sound, every creak of the other girls’ cots, waiting for the next violation. My body is a map of their disdain, etched in purple and yellow.
Then the third sensation arrives, so violent it eclipses the cold and the pain; hunger.
It’s a raw, hollow grinding in the pit of my stomach, a desperate ache that claws its way up into my throat.
I haven’t eaten since the piece of bread yesterday, and my body is screaming for fuel.
The need is so primal, so all-consuming that for a single, wild moment I consider begging.
The shame of that thought is what finally coaxes my eyes open.
The main room is bathed in the weak, grey light of early morning.
The other girls are already stirring, stretching with soft, contented sighs that are like knives in my ears.
They look rested, pampered. Their skin is dewy, their hair brushed.
I feel like something dug up from the earth, grimy and broken.
The door clangs open and Mistress enters, followed by two other women pushing a trolley.
The smell that wafts in makes my stomach clench with a painful spasm.
It’s the scent of fresh, sweet pastries.
Of ripe berries, of creamy yogurt. It’s the most beautiful, most torturous smell I have ever encountered.
The other girls line up, and bowls are handed to them.
I watch, my mouth flooding with saliva as they take their bounty back to their cots.
They eat with small, delicate bites, laughing softly amongst themselves.
Julie catches me staring, and she smiles.
A slow, cruel twist of her lips and takes an exaggerated bite of a flaky, buttery croissant.
I look away, pressing my face into the cold unforgiving bars of my cage.
Then, Mistress’s footsteps approach my cage. The click of the lock is deafening. I don’t look up. I hear a dull, scraping sound as something is pushed through the narrow gap at the bottom of the bars.
“Breakfast,” Mistress’s voice is flat, devoid of all emotion.
I force myself to turn my head, and my mind simply stops.
It’s a metal bowl. But in it, isn’t food, at least, not human food.
It’s a pile of dry, brown, vaguely meat-smelling pellets. It’s kibble. Actual dog kibble.
My brain refuses to process it. This has to be a joke. A terrible, sick joke designed to test me. I don’t dare look up at Mistress, but I know the other girls have stopped eating to watch.
The room is silent except for the sound of my own ragged breathing. The hunger in my stomach is a rabid animal. Howling, demanding I eat whatever is placed before me but the shame is a colder, sharper thing, telling me I would rather die.
I can’t. I just can’t.
Slowly, shaking, I turn my face away again. I close my eyes, trying to block out the world. The smell of pastries, the sight of the kibble, the sound of their silent, mocking laughter.
“Suit yourself,” Mistress says. The lock clicks again. “Up. Now. You absolutely stink.”
The cage door swings open. I don’t move. I can’t. My limbs are leaden with exhaustion and despair. The women who came in with the trolley grab me under my arms and haul me out. My legs buckle but they hold me upright, dragging my bare feet across the floor.
They don’t take me to the bathroom the other girls use. They half-drag, half-carry me down a short, bleak corridor to a tiled room with a drain in the centre. It smells faintly of mildew and industrial cleaner.
The other girls follow, a silent, gawking procession. They line up in the doorway, their breakfast bowls in their hands, their faces masks of cold curiosity.
The women holding me don’t speak. Their hands are rough and efficient. I try to cover myself with my arms, but one of the women slaps my hands away.
I stand there, shivering, my head bowed as one of them picks up a hose attached to the wall. Without warning a jet of freezing, pressurized water hits me square in the chest.
The air is stolen from my lungs. It’s so cold it feels like fire, like a thousand needles piercing my skin.
I gasp, stumbling backward, but the water follows me like a relentless wave.
It hoses me down from head to toe, a brutal, impersonal spray that has nothing to do with cleanliness and everything to do with degradation.
It forces my eyes shut, it stings my nostrils, it pounds against the fresh bruises on my skin.
It leaves me shivering so violently my teeth feel like they’re going to smash apart.
Through the water blurring my vision, I can see the other girls watching.
Their eyes are not curious anymore. They are staring at my naked body with pure, unadulterated disgust. As if I’m a strange, repulsive animal.
Their lips are curled. Felice whispers something to Julie next to her, and they both smirk.
The water shuts off as abruptly as it started. I am left dripping and shuddering, my skin mottled red and blue with the cold. Mistress steps forward and throws a small, thin towel directly at my face. It hits my cheek and falls to the wet floor.
“Dry yourself quickly. You’re dripping all over the floor,” she snaps. “And get dressed.”
She nods toward a plain, grey, shapeless thing hanging on a hook on the far wall.
My fingers are numb and clumsy. I fumble with the towel, trying to pat my body dry but the towel is cheap and small, and instantly soaked. It’s a pointless exercise. I am still shivering and damp when I pull the stiff, unforgiving fabric over my head, and it clings unpleasantly to my wet skin.
I stand there, a drowned rat in a rough-spun sack, my hair plastered to my head and neck, and the trembling isn’t just from the cold anymore.
A deep, seismic fear is taking root in my core, spreading through my veins like ice.
What will today bring? What fresh hell awaits me after a night of torment and a morning of this?
Mistress seems to read my mind. “Seeing as you have no talents, today you will make yourself useful and clean.”
Clean? What the fuck? Like Antonio doesn’t have countless maids already.
“Move,” Mistress barks, and I jump.
I take a hesitant step forward, my mind reeling. I don’t know where to go or what to do. I’ve never, I don’t…
Crack.
A searing, white-hot pain lashes across the back of my thighs, right through the thin dress. I cry out, a sharp, involuntary yelp of pure agony, and lurch forward. I glance back, terrified, and see Mistress holding a thin, flexible cane. Her expression is one of bored impatience.
“I said move. Now.”
Tears of pain and shock spring to my eyes. I don’t dare rub the fiery welt.
I scramble forward, half-running, half-stumbling, desperate to get away from her.
And as I flee, that sound follows me. It starts as a low chuckle and then spreads until all the girls are laughing. It’s not a joyful sound. It’s a sound of cruel entertainment, the laughter of an audience watching a clown fall flat on his face.
Their relaxation, their ease, their laughter, it’s the final twist of the knife. They have comfort, they have fresh fruit and pastries. They have the privilege of watching me be broken.
And I have nothing but this itchy old dress, and a day of scrubbing ahead of me.
My hands are still trembling as I fill the bucket with more water from a deep sink in the corner and add a capful of pungent, acidic cleaner.
My first task is the floors. I get on my hands and knees, dunking the brush in the hot, chemical-laced water and start to scrub. The bristles are harsh on my skin. The smell of the cleaner burns my nostrils and makes my already empty stomach roll.
I scrub every inch of the thick flagstones, working the brush in circles until my shoulders scream, and my knees feel like they’re actually bleeding. The water in the bucket turns grey almost instantly.
I don’t know how big this house is. In truth it doesn’t feel like a house, it feels like a sprawling fortress. I decide the most logical thing is to work my way through each level and as I do, I shoot quick glances out the window.
That’s when the reality of my situation truly hits me. Where the fuck am I? I know the English Channel is not that colour. I know the sea is a deep, stormy grey. But here, all I can see is an impossible turquoise. And the cliffs, the rocks – this is not England.
Is it possible Antonio transported me somewhere? Somewhere far away?
I wipe my brow and it hits me too that this heat, this warmth, this is not a British climate either.
Where the fuck am I?
How can I even try to escape if I don’t know what country, no, what continent I’m on?
It’s hard to contain the fear, the exhaustion, all the emotions that seem to break inside me as I realise my situation is hopeless. Completely, utterly hopeless.
Sweat trickles down my back and between my breasts, mingling with the residual dampness from my shower. The rough dress chafes against my skin, but the worst part is the hunger.
It’s a constant, gnawing presence. A dull ache that has settled into a persistent, dizzying throb behind my eyes.
My vision swims if I stand up too fast. My stomach has stopped grumbling; it’s now just a silent, gaping void of need.
Hours must pass.
I have no way of telling time. My world has shrunk to the next tile, the next swipe of the cloth, the next breath that I have to force into my lungs.
The grandeur of the house, the artwork on the walls, the plush carpets, it all feels like a dream, a bizarre and cruel contrast to the reality of my existence.
I am a grimy creature from the underworld, shuffling through a gilded palace.
Outside a heavy, dark wood door I pause. Trying to smooth down my damp, frizzing hair, to pat the sweat from my flushed face, but it’s useless.