Page 4 of Finding Her


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I hopped into the water, my wounds screaming in protest to the intrusion of heat. Every inch of skin begged me to get out, but I knew each gash needed to be cleaned thoroughly to prevent infection.This isn’t optional. Straining through the stinging, I scrubbed myself raw.

To my disgust, leaves and twigs floated in the tub with me and the water turned brown. I drained the tub, removed the larger of the debris, and started again. It took me three separate washes to feel cleansed, and what felt likeforeverto make it through the knots in my hair with the wide-toothed comb left on a wooden stand to the side of the tub. I had forgotten what clean felt like, and I knew I would never underappreciate the sensation again.

Getting out of the tub and reexamining myself in the mirror, I saw a much prettier girl. However, said pretty girl looked as though she’d crawled her way through hell. My arms, ankles, and face were horribly scratched up and bruised. The cut on my forehead probably warranted stitches, but that didn’t seem like an option. I'd have to accept that it would likely leave a thick scar. Perhaps the most disturbing discovery was the bottoms of my feet. They were shredded to bits with chunks missing, gaping open sores, and strands of skin peeling off anddangling. I touched one of the more severe-looking wounds against my better judgment, and winced.

I sat down on the floor to ease the discomfort from the miserable burn of standing, and slipped into the provided clothing awkwardly. The shirt fit loosely, and the pant legs needed to be rolled up four times so they wouldn’t get stuck under my feet.

I tossed my hair to the side and twisted it in the towel one more time before opening the bathroom door to head downstairs. The wooden floors were harsh against my raw soles. However, the savory aroma wafting through the home provided plenty of motivation to continue my descent.

I walked down the hallway to the split, which had a kitchen to the left and a living area to the right. The kitchen had a large granite table in it with a dusty, yet beautiful, black metal chandelier hanging from the ceiling above. The modernity of the dining area contrasted oddly with the living room, which had a wooden couch with brown cloth cushions, a distressed leather armchair, a tarnished gold floor lamp, and a brick fireplace full of cobwebs. It might have once been quite cozy before it fell into disarray.

“You look lovely,” Graysen greeted.

He, too, had cleaned up, now donning a spotless version of the dapper clothing from earlier. The fit of his button-down and trousers implied a compromise had to be made to accommodate the broader regions of his chest and shoulders while not swimming on his moderate waist and tapering calves. His shoulder-length hair was damp from being washed, with slight waves of it rippling below his jaw. His face was masculine and clean-shaven, possessing square features and a bump at the bridge of his nose. It suited him. Compared to the feral man hunching over me in the carriage, he now appearedquite handsome. Grooming had also taken several years off my impression of his age, now leading me to estimate early thirties. His muted mauve lips were parted slightly as if to say something, but no words came out. His eyes were noticeably less bloodshot than before, but the remaining bags made them seem sunken and tired.

For a moment, I considered that this didn’tfeellike it could be his home. He evidently had a polished self-presentation between the dress shirt and Oxford shoes. Conversely, the house seemed unattended to. It felt nearly abandoned, with the exception of the bathroom and kitchen, which looked as though the counters had been wiped down regularly despite the dirty shelves and decor.

“Thank you.” I hesitantly smiled. “It smells wonderful in here.” My stomach felt near nauseous with the need to devour whatever was simmering on the stove.

“Yes!” His tired expression beamed. “It’ll be ready in just a moment! Please, take a seat.”

There were two chairs on either side of the wide marble countertop. I sat in the closest option, not eager to walk further. I waited with my napkin in my lap, noting a shaving kit drying on a towel next to the kitchen sink alongside a bar of soap.

He soon hurried over with a dish oozing with cheeses and a pasta-like substance that was short and skinny.

I dove in with no regard for manners, shoveling in bite after bite, immediately in a frenzied state. I nearly forgot to swallow between spoonfuls, my cheeks perpetually stuffed. Sauce dripped from the corners of my mouth and onto the clean shirt he had gifted me. I didn’t care if I looked feral; Ifeltferal. I fended off death with each mouthful of dense calories. When was the last time I had eaten?

“Don’t go too fast, my dear,” he suggested gently. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Dinner was mostly silent since I barely gave myself a moment to breathe between bites, much less talk. I felt like I hadn’t eaten in years. He watched me, his expression shifting easily between humor and something along the lines of pity, only speaking occasionally to remind me that I would hurt myself if I didn’t slow down. His warnings never came with much insistence.

“Let’s tend to those feet,” Graysen beckoned me after all dishes had been cleared.

I rose from the chair, failing to stifle my small cry of pain. The longer my body had to recover from its shock, the more swollen and irritated everything became.

His expression twisted, “I can carry you to the couch if—”

“Absolutely not,” I protested. “I’m totally capable of walking.” I brushed past his extended hands to get to the couch before he could finish the offer, desperate to maintain some sense of autonomy.

My stomach ached from quadrupling in size, but it was hardly a noticeable discomfort when compared to the sear of each step on my way to the living area. I tried to mask my wincing, determined to hide that I was struggling with something as simple as walking. The worn cloth of the cushions was a welcome comfort as I sank into them.Good. Now I won’t get up until morning.The daylight peering through the windows was threatening to disappear at any moment.

Graysen knelt before me and looked at the bottoms of my feet. “It looks like you walked across a mile of glass shards,” he frowned.

“I don’t think so, just rocks,” I muttered, resting a hand on my full stomach. Maybe there had been thorns? Bushes? Who knows. I supposed there could have been glass—it wasn’t like I could remember anything.

“I’ll be right back with some bandages and disinfectant.” He stood and walked away with urgency in his stride.

Graysen returned with a small cup of atrocious-smelling liquid, a rag, and a spool of bandages. He sat down, took one foot in his hand, and began to dab gently at it with the warm, damp rag. I gritted my teeth to cope with the sharp pain that shot up my legs and to my chest. My nails sank into the couch.

“Are there other people like me and you?” I hissed, making an attempt at small talk to both distract myself and get an understanding of the situation.

“What do you mean?”

“People who aren’t monsters.”

I couldn’t help but notice his displeasure deepen at the word “monster”. I felt a pang of guilt. Of course he wouldn’t see the people who were probably his neighbors and friends under that label. “Like myself, sure,” he responded, not meeting my gaze as he diligently tended to my wounds. “But I don’t know other people like you.”

“Are we that different?” My foot spasmed from a throb of discomfort, careening toward his face. He swiftly dodged my rogue appendage and continued caring for it, unbothered.