Dark Halls, Stone Walls

Chapter Twenty

Some time passed and after awhile, he emerged from the bathroom with a cream-coloured towel hanging from his hips and a sheepish look on his face. Thankfully, the only other person in the room was a mature, confident, and chaste woman who had no qualms about gently handing him some clean boxers. Yes. His dignity remains intact, as does mine.

I drew out a slow breath and focused on my small, healthier-than-usual looking hands. They were softer than I remembered but my fingernails were short enough to hit the nailbeds. If I pressed the ends of them for too long, they would start to sting. Other than that, it was as if I'd never worked a hard day in my life.

It wasn't worth noticing before, but as I allowed my mind to wander back to 'real life', I recalled how my hands had begun to callous from all the times I grabbed onto the walls or the furniture to fool around. Boredom, of course, was the only reason why I resorted to flailing about like a wild animal.

I let out a sharp laugh.

Perhaps that's why most of what I can vividly recall is staring at the grey floor, waiting for the candlelight to finally burn out. Boredom. I snorted at the word. Bored to death! Death of movitation and then to my mind and finally, perhaps one day, my body!

"Bored...! Just bored." The words fell out before I could stop myself.

"Uh... are you talking to me?"

I whipped my head to find Mr. Princey McDickson—well, his nicer version I suppose—standing at the bathroom door with a nightshirt on and some pants.

I stood up and curtesied. "No, your Highness, I was simply thinking out loud." I hesitated. Where did he find that nightshirt?

The pause wasn't too long. "Ah, I know some people who do that." It was his turn to hesitate. "And... Although I understand that you must have been brought up to follow certain traditions, perhaps by your governess, your mother, or whomever..." He sighed, "... There is no need to have such courtesies for the moment. We have much to talk about, I imagine."

I straightened myself and looked him dead in the eyes, lest I risk dishonoring myself or him. Then it hit me—Silly, you handed him those night clothes! I told myself. Besides, there are more important things to worry about aside from this!

"If you are willing."

A pause.

"May I—"

"You can—"

We stared at each other.

"—Right, so where—"

"—Sit right—"

"—Maybe where you—" He lamely gestured to my chair.

"—Yeah, maybe—"

"—I just don't wanna, uh, your bed—"

"Y-yeah, I understand." I immediately backed away from my chair and plopped down on my bed.

He breezed over to my chair and sat, leaned a bit forward, and cleared his throat. "Well, then. Where do I start?"

I kept a pleasant smile on my face, despite the awkwardness and a sudden rush of hot rage that followed his question. I quelled it just as fast. "Well, goodness, where do I begin-?"

I pretended to ponder for a moment, but I already knew what question I wanted to ask. The last thing I wanted was to seem sharp, especially since I had a feeling that this 'memory' assumed that I must've been dim-witted bubble head. I couldn't ruin that emersion yet—not until I could grasp onto something solid.

"Where to begin..." I repeated myself, turned my head downward and then, "... Do the night clothes fit alright-?"

"Ah, yes, they fit just fine."