Chapter 3
Thealina
There’s something about getting leftover food on my hands that makes my skin crawl. Makes me want to scrub my skin raw, until it bleeds, with a metal scrubbing pad. The jam and butter on the side of my little finger makes me queasy, especially because it came from my mother-in-law’s plate.
“Sweetpea, how long until the King travels to Eklin for his daughter’s burial?” My husband asks, sitting at the table, peering up from behind the large parchment of the town’s weekly bulletin.
I hold up four fingers as I pile dirty plates on top of dirty plates with my free hand.
“Four days?”
Nodding once I exit the breakfast room leaving a wind of haste before he asks any further questions, the hem of my knee length dress swooshing around me as I reach the kitchen and dump the dirty plates into the sink.
Because I lied.
The King leaves the day after tomorrow, not in four days’ time. Why did I lie? Well, because I know my husband plans on stealing something from the monarchy vaults. And there’s something I need from them first.
So, I lied, to buy myself some more time.
If I clock this wrong, it’s not just my tongue I’ll be missing, it’ll be my head too.
On a spike. Outside the gates of the castle for all to see.
The vault holds more than trinkets and coin—it holds my way out.
It holds my chance to get my tongue back.
And I will get it back… or be executed trying.
Either outcome cracks the chain around my neck.
Water and food bits slosh around my suds-covered hands as I wash the porcelain clean from this morning’s breakfast. Barely had my fill before the crone of the manor requested I clean up.
My stomach still grumbles for more sustenance.
Luckily, I’m due to leave for work soon, and on my route is the café.
Which also happens to be across from the Portal Master’s office.
The more time I spend watching him, the less nervous I get and the more good-natured he becomes in my mind.
The way he respectfully regards his customers or the café’ staff.
How he purchases extra to feed the homeless dwarven woman who sometimes sits at the fountain to wash her hands and face.
Or how he opens his door to stray animals on stormy nights.
My skin chills as hands snake around my waist. His chest cocoons my form as he hunches over, brushing his lips along my ear.
“I do prefer the blue uniform, but you look good in this yellow dress.”
Thank you, darling husband, for that backhanded compliment. What a lucky wife I am.
There was once a time I’d express how his words made me feel. It turned a vicious circle. I’d get offended over his words, actions or incompetence; he’d then get agitated with my reaction. Every time he’d come out the victim and I the perpetrator. And mentally exhausted.
His emotional games over the years have scraped my bones bare. Now, his sharp words don’t sting.
I smile at him, kissing his cheek while his hands explore my stomach.
A stomach he wishes swelled with a babe.
His rough fingertips drag over the soft cotton of my dress.
The pressure prickles my skin, the warmth of his palm so nauseating a chill tiptoes down my spine.
I do well to keep my breaths even, though a single bead of sweat trickles between my shoulder blades, itching like a warning I can’t scratch.
“Come straight home from work tonight.” He grips my chin, turning my head to look into his dark blue eyes. Eyes I once thought were so beautiful. Now dull but dangerous. “I’ve a surprise for you,” he says, and I fight the urge to swallow the hard lump of nerves lodged in my throat.
The last surprise he had for me resulted in my mouth being mutilated and I vomiting all over myself at the taste of my own blood, before passing out completely.
I awoke the following evening in no pain, thinking I had a terrible nightmare.
Until I attempted to speak, only to hear pitiful grunting and gargling sounds exiting my mouth and a sad excuse of a tongue remaining.
The red, stumpy flesh still tastes the peppery properties of the calendula healing salve.
My husband kisses my lips, so tenderly anyone watching would think I’m the most cherished thing in his life. I lean into him, playing my part well. He pulls back, resting his forehead on mine, releasing a heavy sigh. His minty breath warms my cheek. “I love you, Thealina.”
He knows I hate my full name, and yet, he still uses it.
He strokes the side of my face, pushing back rogue hairs that had fallen against my cheek. “Very much.”
Liar!
You love me yet make me doubt my reality. You love me yet continue to be incompetent. You love me yet treat me like an object. You love me yet cut out my tongue! I wonder if he misses my voice. If he misses not hearing those three precious words?
“Everything I do, it’s always for you. Only you. I need you to remember that during tough times.”
He can’t be for real…
“I promise to rub your sore feet when you get home,” he smiles, planting a sweet peck on the tip of my nose before grabbing his satchel and heads out, leaving me bewildered and as still as a marble statue.
It would be easy to believe this small amount of kindness is genuine, to cling to some fragile faith in his promises of love, of security. Of safety. But I know better now.
My mind and soul have hardened over time, and although my wounded mouth healed, the bruises of their words, neglect and mind-games, the manipulation and belittlement, the demeaning tones and sexual coercion left a tender mark.
Raw and bottomless, destined to never fade.