Bathroom.
My bladder gives a sudden, desperate, and heavy pull, as if in agreement.
I quickly do my business while surveying the small bathroom. As plain as the bedroom, with a small shower stall, toilet, and sink.
I wipe, rise, and flush before turning to the sink and finally, facing the mirror.
Dried blood lines half my face. A nasty-looking cut sits above my brow where I had hit the side of the van. I wash my hands, then decide, “fuck it,” and have a shower. I needed to clean my wound, but I also felt gross. Violated. The hands of the men who took me still firmly indented in my skin.
I wash my body thoroughly, scrubbing my skin until it is pink and raw, before moving on to my face. The cut stings as I let warm water rain down over my face. I wash firmly where I remember the bloodstains had been and watch as the water pooling around my toes turns a rusty red before disappearing down the drain. When the water clears, I turn and rinse my hair.
After I have dried and wrapped myself in a towel, I inspect the wound. It’s not too deep. Head wounds always bleed profusely. I open the single drawer beneath the sink.
Mini soaps, shampoo and conditioner bottles, body lotion, a hairbrush, a razor, sanitary products, and- uh-huh! A first aid kit. A generic small and red, with a white cross on top, first aid kit.
I unzip the kit and find the antiseptic lotion. After applying it sparingly, I leave the wound to breathe. It was too close to my hairline to cover properly, anyway.
I step back and appraise myself.
I am an attractive woman. I’m not being vain. I’m just saying it how it is.
I look a lot like my mother, and people always commented on her beauty.
I have a rich tan, crocodile-like eyes that are hazel and green, and thick, chocolate-brown hair that I usually braid tightly, otherwise it just gets in the way. Blowing in my face, my eyes, my mouth… blowing in other people’s faces, eyes, and mouths… Inconvenient is what it was. I would have shaved it all off years ago, but I never found the courage. Rihana and Waverly often commented that it would suit my slim, pixie-like face, and I often agreed. But my mother loved my hair when I was younger, and she was here. I hated to think of losing such a tender connection to her.
My body is small, slim, and defined, like a dancer’s. I loved exercising, especially jogging through the city parks. My breasts are on the smaller side, which suits my athletic lifestyle, and my ass is… quite impressive if Ihad to say so myself. All plump and jiggly but firm. Leg day sucked, but itsohad its perks.
I turn away from my reflection and walk out into the room. I am hoping for some spare clothes so I don’t have to re-wear what I fell unconscious in. Those clothes felt dirty, and I felt like my shower would have been in vain.
Thankfully, the set of drawers contained a few items.
Everything was in cream, including the underwear, and I was secretly thankful it wasn ’t my time of the month. Light underwear and periods did not end well.
I pull on the cheaply made bra and underwear, pointedly not thinking about how they knew what size clothing I wore, then choose a tank top and some comfortable-looking three-quarter length leggings.
As I pull up my pants, I belatedly realize my shoes are missing. After a quick inspection, I only find a pair of slim slippers by the door. I decide to forgo them for now. While I’m at the door, I decide to try the handle again.
Still locked.
So I knock.
“Hello?” I call. “Is there anybody there?”
I press my ear against the door. Nothing. There’s not even a peephole to look through.
I kick the door in frustration.
“Hello? Let me out of here!” I scream, my nerves finally fraying.
I kick the door again, twist the handle, and scream like a fool.
Nothing.
Eventually, I give up and head to the desk where I had spied the stack of papers earlier.
I pick up the first page.
Congratulations on being Chosen-
