''Come closer and I will scream!'' His prey whimpered.
''Scream. I dare you.'' He growled.
Twenty-three-year-old Ilona Bukowski has always been fascinated by the supernatural, even when she shouldn't. This fascination takes her to Romania, where she...
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During her forced stay at Castle Poenari, Ilona had primarily felt one thing: loathing. Bit by bit she had learned to loathe everything she once so dearly loved: her bright red curls now only reminded her of the blood that her captors took from her; her lips that never smiled anymore and could not bother to speak kind words, her hands that once wrote poems and stories now could not stop trembling and her bright mind that her professors found so promising had now turned against her.
Loneliness had taken its toll on her. She had been forced to stay inside the bedroom, and the once so grand suite now suffocated her. The emotion had hit Ilona like a truck. For far too long she had suppressed her true emotions, hoping everything would be alright and in the most severe case, she would wake up in her small bedroom in Oxford.
She never did.
Ilona did eat. Barely, but she did eat, because even though her emotions drained her to the bone, she did not wish to die. Yes, she was aware of how ironic that must sound. In the darkest moments she thought about her life before she travelled to Romania and stepped into this Hellhole. How would Eydís be faring? She had probably already called her parents and alerted the authorities, Hell, knowing Eydís she had even knocked down the door of Scotland yard. For one worshipping God, she certainly behaved like the Devil herself once provoked.
A dry sob left her lips, tears did not come; for she had run dry a long time ago. Apart from that one short, but memorable visit, Vlad had not shown his face. Ilona was perfectly fine with that.
The first time Ilona caught sight of her reflection had been the day after Vlad's visit. A servant had dragged her out of bed and towards the bathroom. There, Ilona had been locked-up like cattle unable to get out unless she took a much-needed shower. She had crumbled and broken the mirror.
Thirteen stitches now graced her right hand.
Damaged goods, Scarface had called her. It had not affected her as much as he had hoped, because Ilona was indeed damaged. Every sane person would be if put in her current position. And for that she could not blame herself.
Only him.
It had been days since she last showered, and she started to smell herself. It took her a couple minutes to bring herself to care, and she slowly dragged herself out of bed. The sheets were rumpled; this was the only evidence someone lived in this room. No personal belongings beside the occasional set of clothes and her toiletries could be found. Like she was just a ghost passing through, not bothering to leave a trace. Ilona guessed that this thought was true to a certain degree. Eventually she would die here, long forgotten and not worth remembering. She just hoped her blood tasted as bitter as she felt. That it would make him nauseous and irrevocably ill. Then again, she hoped a lot of bad things these days.
Dragging her feet across the carpet Ilona stumbled to the ensuite bathroom. It was recently cleaned, and it smelled like citrus and lavender, a soft balm on her soul. The mirror above the sink was still broken and Ilona did her best to avoid looking at herself in the large mirror opposite the bathtub. As usual, the bath was already filled with pleasantly warm water and a layer of scented foam floated on top. Discarding her clothes Ilona stood naked in the chilly air, her nipples pebbled against the cold, and she shuddered once her toes came into contact with the contrastingly warm water. She lowered herself into the tub until the only thing above the surface was her head. It felt like a warm hug from a lover, longingly she moved her fingers through the thin layer of foam. This was where she felt safe, apart from the bed, and Ilona submerged herself into the water. Keeping her eye open, she welcomed the sting of the soap while she glanced at the ceiling.
