My eyes fluttered open and for a brief moment I did not recognize where I was. This felt like waking up from a nap in the middle of the evening and forgetting the time, place, and even year of your existence, only to a much lesser extent.
I do not remember getting to bed. What was the last thing I remembered? Think.
Yesterday had been an unusually pleasant day, for the most part, then after dinner, oh yeah! Now I remember! Mistress and I were watching a movie. Damn, I must have been exhausted because all I remember was warming myself up by scooting closer to her and that’s it. That’s as far as my memory goes. I guess she must have carried me to bed or something. That’s nice. At least she made sure I was comfortable. Shit, I do hope she did not take advantage of me while I was passed out. Her arm is draped over my waist. Let me see.
Moving from my extremely comfortable and pleasantly warm position, I slowly pushed her arm off me and lifted the covers. It felt like my clothes were still on. So far, so good. My hand reached further down until it was inside my pants, and to my relief, I could feel my underwear still present. That’s another good sign. I do not feel any soreness in my genitals, not that it would necessarily be sore, but the lack of it was another good indication.
What else can I check? Maybe new bruises? Shit, that would mean that I have to face myself in the mirror. I do not know if I am ready for that. Screw it! I will never be ready for it, but I need to know. The uncertainty is going to eat at me.
Quietly getting up from the bed and grabbing my glasses, I made my way to the bathroom where I know there is a full-length mirror which I have avoided looking at. I have purposely closed my eyes or looked another way when passing by that mirror, or even the one that sits above the sink. The silver lining to all of this is that the mirrors are nowhere near that damned bathtub. I guess it is time to face the truth.
I locked the bathroom door and turned on the lights, then warily walked just shy of reaching the mirror.
Mustering up the small amount of courage that I awoke with, I closed my eyes tightly, buried my fingers into my palms, inhaled deeply, took a step to the side to position myself directly in front of the mirror, exhaled, and finally opened my eyes.
I…
I…
Shit.
Why did I do this?
Who is that person staring back at me? She moves when I move, and blinks when I blink, but that is not me.
This girl, her eyes, look worn out and sunken. They are lidded. The determined spark that once resided in them is gone. Her skin is pale, too pale. The healing cuts across her face and the varying yellow and green bruising mottle her appearance. Her cheekbones appear more pronounced as her cheeks draw into the sides of her face.
As my eyes wander down her face, they see that her lips are cracked and flaky. The corners of her mouth no longer hold any semblance of a smile.
Her messy, dry hair lacks shine and luster. It accentuates the reddish, finger-like bruising at the edges of her neck that contrasts the wide, band-like green bruise across her neck. The ghosts of scratch marks still haunt the somber memories of the first day.
Looking further down her body, I can see the yellow-stained bandages dispersed on her thin forearms. More mottled discoloration of her skin appears to be peeking out from under the white fabrics.
The oversized clothes she is wearing hang limply off her body and make her appear thinner and frailer than what she should be.
She looks defeated, tired, and scared.
Her hands tightly grip her shirt and shakingly lift it. The contusions littering her torso still have not faded. However, there are no fresh markings that indicate further assault.
Her ribs, sternum, and clavicles seem to now cast darker shadows.
That girl’s body looks so pitifully beaten and battered, yet it is still standing.
Her right hand angrily shoots to her left forearm and forcefully rips out the tainted bandages covering it. The triangle's apex from the iron stamp shows a border of darker skin, immediately followed by light pink, moist dermis. What draws my attention is the base of the triangle which has an angry, wet, beefy red and granular appearance. About two-thirds of the stamped-in image looks like it is healing nicely, but the triangle's base is concerning. I see that the girl's index finger slowly hovers over the red tissue until it comes into contact with it. Even though it looks bad, the touch elicits no pain.
Without dwelling any longer on the lesions on her forearm, I see the girl abruptly turn around to show her bandaged back. Before I could call out to the girl and tell her to stop, she ripped away the bandages.
It's huge. The branding takes up way too much space on her back.
The inverted triangle's base reaches from shoulder to shoulder. The apex extends down to encompass three-quarters of her back. What a painful sight this is to behold. There are so many varying shades of red across her back.
It seems like the branding iron was not evenly heated because the middle of the stamp, where the bird is, looks worse than the rest.
I want to take this girl's pain away, but I cannot seem to move from the spot I am standing in. My mind is willing, but my body is not responding.
I see the tears welling up in the girl's sad eyes. Her face is reddening. My throat feels dry looking at her. There's a prickling sensation building up on the inside of my nose.
She falls to her knees and I feel pain on mine.
Why is my body not listening to me?
Something falls down my cheeks, but I cannot tell what it is. It is not exactly itchy, but I want to get it off. My hands make no such attempt to rise to my face. When did they wrap themselves around my arms? Had I been hugging myself as long?
I hear someone call from the other side of the bathroom door, but I cannot distinguish the words. Is this a language I can recognize? I think there are some knocks also, but I am not sure.
My vision is blurred. Something distorts the image before me as it is stopped on a clear surface, accumulating the more time passes. It undulates as I move until it overflows and lets me see a bit clearer.
Why does my chest ache? I feel like something is squeezing the blood out of my heart and driving needles in its place. Is someone stepping on my chest? Why do they feel the need to keep applying pressure?
Ugh, this noise! Why would somebody play an untuned violin? Who, in their right mind, can concentrate with this incessant ringing? I want to shout at them to make it stop, but my mouth refuses to form words.
I want to get up and run, but my legs feel unusually sore. Furthermore, I just woke up, so why do they feel this way?
Is someone talking to me? I see flashes of color before me, but no clear shape.
What is this upward pressure I feel on my chin? I refuse to comply with its demand.
Why is my stomach rumbling this way? I have not eaten anything to make it upset.
Is someone grabbing my shoulders? Why? It is not like I am not going anywhere because my body still refuses to listen to me. Is there more than one person next to me?
Why are they trying to pull my arms apart?
I feel a hot liquid rising up to my throat. It is bitter. Why does my throat feel like it's burning? Maybe I should get some water once my body responds.
Ouch! What bit me?
Why is everything turning…?
---
Ugh, why does it feel like someone took a jackhammer to my skull?
I try to lift my right hand, but something stops it.
What have I done now? Why am I restrained?
I caught a glimpse of someone exiting the door just as I opened my eyes, but could not make out who it was.
In the five minutes that I was left alone, I felt an all too familiar and definitely not welcomed sensation around my lower half. Exactly how long have I been in bed because I am getting really tired of all this plastic in and on me.
For as long as I have been here, I have spent most of my time in this room. At this point, they should seriously consider putting a placard with my name next to the door to make it official.
Aside from the usual routine that seemed to accompany me, the only thing that was new this time was a dull, throbbing ache on the lateral side of my right thigh. It's not like I could check what was going on, so I am just going to ask whoever sets foot in here next.
The door opened, and I knew that Mistress walked in because of her signature clicking of the heels coupled with her confident stride. Whoever trailed behind Mistress, however, remained a mystery since everything was out of focus. One thing that I did notice was that the person had dark skin, but they stayed next to the door.
"What is going on? Why am I restrained? What did I do wrong? What--"
"One question at a time, sweetheart. Calm down," Mistress interrupted my slew of questions as she raised the palm of her hand. Her tone was soft and accepting.
"Why am I back here?" I asked disappointedly, finally settling on what I wanted her to answer first.
She grabbed my glasses from the nightstand and put them on me, making sure to tuck my hair behind my ears. Right away, I could see Mistress's pained look. A small, relieved smile adorned her lips. Her right hand moved to caress my cheek while her thumb gently stroked it.
Why is she acting this way? I have never seen her look at me like this.
Her hand lingered on my face longer than I care to admit. Our eyes swayed around each other. She looked so intensely at me as if she were searching for something that had been lost, but I could not make out what she wanted. My eyebrows were upturned in worry while I swallowed forcefully.
Sensing my growing discomfort, she took her hand away from my face and put a comfortable distance between us.
"Can you tell me your full name, sweetheart?" Mistress inquired.
Uh, what? She already knows it. They all do. Why ask me such a question?
"Keira… Sinclair? Why?" I answered dubiously.
"Do you know where you are, Keira?" Mistress followed up with another weird question.
"I don't know exactly where we are. I just know that I was kidnapped and brought to this base. Why are you asking all of these weird questions? You know all of this!" I replied, growing exasperated, still trying to wrap my head around this whole situation.
"Calm down, Keira. Take a deep breath and just answer my questions," she said with a more insistent tone, but still talking softly. She paused and waited for me to acknowledge her statement.
I could sense that Mistress was trying to remain as calm as possible so that her actions reflected on mine. I took a deep breath to slow my gradually increasing heart rate, knowing that I would get answers much faster if I just humored her. Why is she beating around the bush so much?
"What is the last thing you remember, Keira?" Mistress asked after I took a brief pause and nodded at her.
"Um… I remember falling asleep watching the horror movie last night, then somehow waking up in bed next to you this morning. I remember panicking because I woke up in bed and your arm was around me. When I saw that, I immediately tried to piece together last night's events and tried to figure out if you had assaulted me again." Guilt was plastered all over her face, but I did not pity her expression. She knows what she did. "I checked to see if my clothes were still on, and then walked to the bathroom to check if there were any new marks on my body to indicate if you had touched me in any way. The last thing I remember was walking to the bathroom and opening the door, then I woke up here like this. Why?"
"Is that all you remember?" Mistress pressed further.
"Yes?" I squinted my eyes at her. "What is going on? Why won't you just tell me what it is I am doing back here and why I am tied to the bed again?" It was obvious that I was growing painfully annoyed at this whole situation, despite trying my best to remain calm. I just want some answers. Now!
Mistress took in a long, drawn out inhale and sat next to my hip before expelling the air. It seems like she is gearing up to say something I probably will not like to hear.
"First and foremost, you are not in any trouble, and I don't want you to think for a second that your current situation is in any way your fault. Your being restrained is just a precautionary measure to ensure your safety." What? I have not mentioned anything about wanting to off myself again. "Secondly, what you keep referring to as last night's events were in fact four days ago." Four… Days? I have been here this long? I felt the blood drain from my face. Right off the bat, she saw my ghost-like expression. Her warm fingers encircled my bound hand and gave a comforting, firm squeeze. "Yes, you heard correctly. It's been four long days. We've had to keep you sedated and restrained for most of them. You mentioned that you got up from bed and walked to the bathroom, is there really nothing you remember about what happened when you went in? Try to think hard."
Where is she getting at? Four days? Sedated? I want to remember. I woke up, feared Mistress taking advantage of me, got up from bed, walked to the bathroom, opened the door, then... then… then what? Why can't I remember? After my hand lands on the door knob and I swing it open, everything is just black. I must have walked in I guess, she said so, but what happened in there? How is it possible that four days have passed since my last memory, and it feels like it happened just a couple of hours ago?
"I… I can't remember anything after reaching the door. No, wait!" A sudden flash crossed my mind. "I remember wanting to look at myself in the mirror, but…" My words trailed off just as soon as the memory escaped my conscious self. "Did I get to it?" I whispered, looking down at my lap.
After pondering my query for a few moments, I came up empty-handed. I locked eyes with Mistress. A blank expression was present on my face. I did not possess the answer that neither she nor I wanted. From the look on her face, it was evident that she had tried everything to make me try to remember.
Mistress sighed heavily. It seemed like she was hoping for a different outcome.
"Keira, sweetheart," oh no. Anytime she combines my name and a term of endearment, that means something bad, even more so with her empathetic tone, "you had what is called a dissociative episode, more specifically, dissociative amnesia coupled with depersonalization.
What I mean to say by this is that during these past four days, you did not know who you were, where you are, or anything that had happened to you. You kept saying that you felt as if you were seeing yourself through somebody else's eyes," she took in a deep breath. "Four days ago, when you went into the bathroom, you locked yourself in there. I had been asleep at the time and did not sense you getting out of bed until I heard screams and cries that startled me awake. When I realized where the screams were coming from, I rushed over and tried to open the door. I called out to you, but you weren't responding.
The sounds coming from you were so pained that even the guards came in the room to check what was going on.
After we unlocked the door, you were topless and doubled over on the floor, surrounded by a pool of your vomit. You had taken off your bandages and were scratching at your wounds. Your fingertips were covered in blood. When we approached you and called out, you weren't responding, it's like you were lost in your own thoughts, battling your demons. We tried several times to get your attention and get you under control. To say your breathing was erratic was an understatement. You were sweating bullets and were completely out of it. I did not have much of an option, so we injected you with quick acting sedatives and anxiolytics. From there, we brought you here to assess the damage.
After changing your soiled clothes, cleaning and dressing your wounds, we waited until you woke up. The problem with that was that the person who woke up wasn't you, or at least, you didn't recognize yourself. When we inquired further about your personal information, you said that you did not know who we were talking about. You did not know where you lived, who your family was, or any other biographical information. We went as far as bringing you your personal effects that were in your backpack, including your driver's license, but all we got was more of the same.
The next day, you woke up in another panic, but did not know why. Although you were alert and responsive, you still did not recognize yourself. You would break down crying out of the blue and would want to get out of the room, saying that you had to be somewhere else, but you never specified where. Since you weren't allowed to leave the room, you got aggressive once again and tried to fight your way out. That's when we didn't have a choice but to keep you chemically and physically restrained.
While all this was happening, I decided it would be in your best interest to do the skin grafting surgery so that you would be able to recover during the time you were sedated. That is why you may have noticed some mild pain or new bandages on your right thigh.
Every time you were conscious, we had to assess if you were oriented to person, place, and time to determine if you were still suffering from your dissociative episode.
Today was the first time in which you finally are oriented to all three and remember most of the events leading up to the time you dissociated." She paused for a second to look me over and let all the information sink in. Then, she stepped forward and threw her arms around me, pressing me tightly into her chest. "I'm just glad to have you back."