THE PAWN AND THE KING

17

Talia and the old man didn't return after the earlier incident. The silence that settled in the room was suffocating, thick with an unseen tension that made my skin crawl. My stomach churned, a deep, gnawing ache that twisted with every breath. The room felt stifling, the air heavy, and the dim light from the single bulb hanging overhead flickered faintly, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls.

I forced myself up, my body protesting with every movement, each muscle aching as if I'd been run over. I needed the bathroom. Every step was a battle as I shuffled towards it, my legs weak and trembling beneath me. The tiles were cold under my bare feet, and the smell of mildew and stagnant water filled the air, making me gag.

Once inside, I hurried to relieve myself. But when I pulled my panties down, my heart stopped. Blood. There wasn't a lot, but it was enough to make my breath hitch. My throat tightened with panic as my mind raced, trying to make sense of it. It wasn't time for my period. The tight, uncomfortable feeling in my stomach had been gnawing at me since I woke up, but now it seemed sharper, more ominous.

I pressed a shaky hand to my lower abdomen, wincing at the tenderness. Something wasn't right. My pulse quickened, panic clawing at the edges of my mind. I tried to push the fear down, telling myself it was nothing serious. But the uncertainty gnawed at me, relentless.

Turning towards the sink, I caught a glimpse of myself in the grimy mirror. I flinched. I barely recognized the woman staring back at me. My left eye was bloodshot, the red veins spiderwebbing across the white, and the skin beneath was swollen and dark, like I'd been punched. A thin cut traced across my cheek, already scabbing over, and my hair clung to my sweaty forehead, a tangled mess.

A strangled gasp escaped my throat as I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back, refusing to break down. I felt fragile, as if the smallest push would shatter me completely.

I bit down on my lip to stifle a sob, the metallic taste of blood flooding my mouth as the pressure split the already-chapped skin. My chest heaved, the sobs I'd been holding back breaking free, wracking through my body in waves. I hadn't cried like this in years. It wasn't just the pain. It was the fear, the uncertainty, the overwhelming loneliness. I was trapped here, wherever "here" was, with no way out, no one to turn to.

When I finally calmed down, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, my breath shaky and uneven. I felt lighter, though no less afraid. My reflection still stared back at me, bruised and broken, but at least I could look at her without flinching this time. I rinsed my face with cold water, the icy shock jolting me back into focus, and quickly dressed again. The dirty, sweat-soaked clothes clung to my skin, making me grimace. I felt disgusting.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, I immediately noticed something new. The bed, which had been bare before, now had fresh clothes neatly folded at the edge. Across the room, on a small, wobbly coffee table, sat a simple meal: a sandwich and a glass of orange juice. My stomach growled, reminding me how weak I felt.

Relief washed over me, mingled with confusion.

I walked over to the bed, my movements slow and cautious, still half-expecting someone to burst through the door at any moment. As I picked up the fresh clothes, a small piece of paper slipped out from between the folds. I unfolded it carefully, recognizing the scrawled handwriting immediately. At the bottom of the note was a small signature, the letter "T."

Talia.

The note was brief. She urged me to change into the fresh clothes—which I was already grateful for—and to eat the meal provided. The tone of the note was oddly casual, almost caring. There was something unnerving about it, considering everything that had happened earlier. How could she act so nonchalant after what I'd witnessed? After everything?