Hollow
Hannah
Days started to blend into one another. I was barely conscious for any of it. I let my body move on its own, my mind hiding somewhere deep inside me. I went through the same motions day in and day out.
Wake up.
Work.
Go to bed.
Emptying a bucket of dirty water, I stepped outside into the courtyard that connected the bathhouse to the garden.
A few days ago, it had started to rain. A heavy downpour doused the world in grey, dulling its colours and vibrancy.
Trees sagged under the weight of the rain.
Flowers closed off, hiding away from the world.
It felt as though the rain had sucked out every last bit of life remaining.
Heavy raindrops splashed against the stone path and steps.
I stood under the porch, the rain falling cold and heavy, and watched it for a while.
Then I emptied my bucket and went back inside.
I had another five rooms to clean.
My hands had dried from the cleaning soap, so much so that they had started to crack open, bleeding.
It burned when I touched the soap, but I didn’t care.
Countless hours spent on my knees scrubbing the corridors had left them red and bruised.
It had to be done, either way. I had learned to avoid attention as much as possible.
Guests usually didn’t look twice. They ignored me.
I was nothing to them. A grey, shapeless blob.
The mistress would appear from time to time, monitoring whether I was doing a good enough job.
“There is still a stain on the bench!”
“You missed a footprint on the floor! Are you blind?”
“The fireplace is dusty!”
It was never enough. I managed to avoid her most of the time, remembering every scolding, every mistake. I made mental notes to do as she said. The less attention on me, the better.
The slug-like customers were the most challenging.
They left a wet, slippery trail behind wherever they went.
I once exited a freshly cleaned room unsuspecting, slipped on one of their trails, and hit the ground hard.
I grunted, air knocked out of my lungs. Two customers passed by, laughing at me lying on the floor, cleaning supplies strewn around me.
As punishment for my misbehaviour, I had to clean the whole corridor alone—and received no food for one day.
Walking through the empty halls at night, I had time to take it all in.
How the water reflected on the ceiling, making it look like marble.
How the few candles fixed along the walls created shadows and light that seemed to chase one another through the countless rooms and corridors.
How the soft sound of water would lull any wary traveller into a state of peace.
Had it been any different, had it been a different life, I would have thought it beautiful.
I would have loved spending time here, enjoying the warm water, swimming and relaxing. But that wasn’t my life anymore.
If the tent had felt like a prison, this was my tomb.
The tent.
Home.
Him.
Stop.
I pushed it down. Sealed it. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel. I scrubbed the floor harder. My hands bled.
Every day, the food was the same grey gruel. Its slimy texture stuck to my teeth, coating my mouth in a strange, unpleasant aftertaste. But I swallowed it down. It was a source of energy, nothing more, nothing less. Food had started to lose its taste long before that. It made little difference.
Looking around, everyone had the same soulless expression in their eyes, as if the light inside them had long been sucked out, washed and hollowed by each passing day spent here. We acknowledged each other. I knew they were here. They knew I was here. But that was it.
At night, I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling.
Feeling every muscle and limb. Feeling my burning hands and bruises the day had left.
I was tired but the pain made it hard to sleep.
The rain still fell heavily, pounding on our small window.
I had always thought the sound of rain soothing.
Back on Earth, I would often open the windows when it rained, listening to the soft sounds, the gentle drips on my windowsill.
How the usual busy sounds of the city were suddenly softened.
The dirt washed away and all my worries with it.
I would crawl back into bed, pull the covers up to my chin, and just listen.
Back then, it had seemed so mundane—a thing I could repeat every time it rained.
It all seemed so far away now, like a life I had once read about in a fairytale, not one I had truly lived. But this was not my life. Not anymore.
Standing outside under the porch in the courtyard once again, I watched the rain fall. I closed my eyes and dared to imagine, just for one moment, that I was back at home, under my blankets. Safe. Sound. A raindrop hit my cheek. I wiped it away.
I wondered when I got so weak. Why I didn′t have any fight left in me. I was tired. My body ached. The thought of running hadn’t crossed my mind even once. Where to? I was utterly alone. There was nothing for me out there. There never had been.