Above Ground: A woman kept hidden, bred for perfection, everything she once was had been shattered and taken away from her.
Underground: A man a shell of his former self, a life of darkness shrouds him, his authority now mind-numbing.
A world that...
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"You ready?" Harry called out from within my room.
I was putting in my earrings, clasping them with my tongue jutted in concentration.
Realizing I hadn't bothered to respond, I shouted, "Almost!"
Assessing my outfit in the mirror one last time, I scrutinized every minuscule detail, mindful that I had to look impeccable. It would give my Father ammunition if I resembled anything less than perfect.
Tonight, I had to play the part Andres wanted of me for everything to run as smoothly as possible. It was tempting to see how effortlessly I could slip into the role of my Father's daughter without the use of narcotics.
I couldn't go in there acting deranged, aware that it would ruin everything, setting us back before we had even begun. Stares would be honed in on us all night, especially with Harry on my arm, forcing me to remain composed.
Internally I was unhinged, the frenzy boiling within my veins, threatening to detonate at any provocation. But I wouldn't let my Father see that.
Fear was surprisingly the last thing I felt, but my hands were still clammy as I smoothed out my dress. They subtly trembled as I finished the final touches, and I couldn't figure out why. Mentally checking in with myself, I couldn't pinpoint the exact instigation.
I wasn't afraid, nervous, or even upset.
But my body physically betrayed me.
Sighing bitterly, I turned the faucet on, placing my sticky hands under the cold water. I inspected the ruby red nail polish adorning my nails as I washed the physical remnants of the nerves away. I was appreciative my hand had healed perfectly, as I didn't want to wear the bandages as an accessory. It was a bit tender, but the swelling had gone down, keeping the injury unnoticeable.
Taking a deep breath, I straightened my spine and dried my hands on the small towel.
Thanks to Harry, who had repaired the mirror, my reflection was no longer distorted.
During that delightful conversation, I told him what had occurred in my dream and how enraged I was. In true Harry fashion, he didn't shame me for it, signifying that my feelings were valid. He still made sure to emphasize he didn't regret not telling me. Clarifying that they were my memories to experience and that he had refused to manipulate them to suit his narrative.
I knew that Harry wasn't the bad guy in the situation; rather, my Father was the culprit.
My body was no longer playing Judas, the cold water alleviating the problem.
Rolling my shoulders back, I dissected my appearance one last time, conscious Harry was waiting.
The dress was perfect, something my Father undoubtedly would have chosen for me to wear if he had seen it. The dress's structure was a simple black fabric that clung to my shape. Two thick gold chains held it up on my shoulders, and another loosely dangled around each bicep. Around the entire bodice were four gold chains that met in the middle of my ribs, holding two flowers made from gold. The center of the larger flower was a red gem, a singular pearl dangling from it. On each hip were three more chains linking to a gold embroidered flower on each of my hip bones.
