The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 20

I sat curled up in the corner of the bathroom for some time after Brandon left.

"I'm sure you have a lot to think about," he had murmured, his fingers tracing a pattern across my bare, bruised shoulder before turning and walking away, leaving me still staring at the reflection in the mirror. I had been vaguely aware of a key turning in the lock, a small audible click that echoed through the empty bedroom, but all I could do was continue to stare numbly and breathe in the scent of the bath oils that were now starting to make me feel the creeping touch of nausea in the base of my stomach. Backing up slowly, I hit the wall and slid down it, crumpling to the floor, tangled in the white bed sheet that I still clutched to my chest. Thin skin stretched tightly over my knuckles as I gripped the linen around my body.

My gaze drifted to the large porcelain bathtub and I had the urge to fill it again and plunge my filthy body into the water. I wanted to scrub my skin till it bled. I wanted to rid myself of the stain that I was sure covered every inch of me. But the thought of lying in that tub - where I had lain with him - was enough to ignite the bile in my gut and I gagged, clapping a hand over my mouth as my body reacted the only way it could. Frantically crawling to the toilet, discarding the sheet along the way, I bent naked over the bowl and felt the burn of the acid as I dry heaved.

By the time I managed to stop, my eyes were bloodshot from the heaving and my stomach felt freshly bruised, as if someone had pummelled at my flesh again and again.  Flushing the chain, I rested my forehead against the cool rim of the bowl and tried hard to control my breathing which was wracking my chest with great pained wheezes. My ribs hurt when I inhaled too deeply but I knew the bones were already fusing back into place. Staring down at my legs, I shuddered when I saw that I still bore the horror of Felix's final attack. The wound stretched around my thigh, marking the span of his huge jaws and the skin was a mess of puckered, angry-looking scar tissue. I tentatively touched the ravaged surface, grimacing when the image of Felix's decapitated head and dead eyes assaulted my mind and fought the urge to gag again when I remembered that final dark shape looming over me.

My husband, the monster.

Using the toilet as support, I managed to climb to my feet but felt the tremor in my legs as I stood upright and had to brace myself against the wall in fear that I would collapse. My head was fuzzy with panic. I couldn't think straight, let alone walk straight and taking a tentative step, I stumbled over to the washbasin, just managing to reach it before my legs could give way underneath me. Twisting the faucet, I gasped as the blast of cold water shot out, rebounding off the basin and splashing my stomach, but it was just the shock I needed. Leaning down, I desperately shovelled handfuls into my mouth, trying to rid myself of the taste of bile before spitting it out and watching transfixed as the water swirled and gurgled into the plughole. I wished so much that I could follow it down into the drains and slither back to the dirty gutters and grimy hide-outs of Whitechapel and escape this rococo-patterned nightmare.

Glancing up, I stared woefully at my reflection in the mirror. The girl trapped in the glass stared back at me with fear plastered across her face, her eyes telling tales of defeat and submission. I felt defiled by her presence, disgusted and ashamed that I was her and that she was me. Reaching out a trembling hand, I touched her face, softy tracing the dark circles under her eyes, the contours of her cheekbones, the shoulder blade that he had touched. Leaning forward, I pressed my forehead against hers, laid my palms flat against the glass, against her palms, and closed my eyes, trying to prevent the tears from breaking to the surface.

A small, pale face flashed into my mind, fine blonde hair like a halo, Buzz Lightyear socks tinged with blood and that shy half-smile that somehow managed to freeze my blood and warm my heart both at the same time. With a sharp intake of breath, I pushed myself away from the mirror, my face now twisted into an ugly sneer and I stumbled across the bathroom to where the bed sheet lay discarded, gathering it around me and heading back into the bedroom. Stopping just inside the room, I glanced towards the door and quickly padded over and pressed my ear against it, attempting to detect whether any of Brandon's mutts might be waiting on the other side. I could hear nothing directly outside, but the strong scent of the Varúlfur drifted through the crack under the door. They might not have been on guard, but they were here somewhere or at least had been very recently. Frowning, I backed away from the door.