Verboten

11.

Two feet tied to shoes made of steel anchors clomping down an empty hallway, red hot liquid lava oozing from the conduit of a volcano, traipsing across a nest of territorial yellow jackets, the removal of each wisdom tooth, the shattering of a wounded heart.

Somehow your eyes pry open and greet the morning sun through the aggression of a pounding skull, your hair dried and clinging to the blood that ran from your nose in sickening streams, your entire head throbbing with the fire of sun. You push yourself up to sitting and whine loudly as the weight of your agony settles into your conscious reality, willing yourself not to cry in order to keep any further headaches at bay.

Your beautiful blush dress that reminded you of Marie Antionette is now soaked in a gory crimson across the front like a bib made of blood, the pearls that you borrowed from a waitress digging into the skin of your neck and leaving small circular indentations across your collarbones, bits of your hair tangled around the links and clasps in tiny knots.

Your fingers wrap around the bed frame to guide you to your feet, your trembling fingers working to remove your clothing and unlace your corset, shuffling to your washstand to fill your basin with water and scrub your face gently. The blood from your washcloth and fingers gradually permeating the water in the bowl and dying it a glassy vermillion as your skin restores to it's natural state.

When you finally garner courage to look at yourself in the mirror, your jaw drops as you study the angry purple and black mark on your eye socket and the bridge of your nose, a small split in your top lip where your father's knuckle pierced the delicate skin. He's never wounded you quite so harshly before and as you raise your hands into view and take note of the vicious bruises tainting the skin of your wrists and forearms, you finally allow the flood of tears to break through the tension of your eyelashes.

You sit on your floor and clean the rest of your body from head to toe with your sweet smelling lavender soap, swallowing your salty tears as they leak into the corners of your mouth.

Your father would rip every shred of fabric from your body if he saw you wearing it; so you cloak yourself in Harry's wilted floral-scented button down shirt then cover it up with a bodice and a high-necked, long sleeved dress. Having the disguised reminder of him underneath your clothes in the same secretive manner that your affair ran its course gives you an inkling of hope that you'll have the courage to seize your freedom one day; whether or not that's an ignorant thought will soon be determined.

The bartender is sent upstairs to check in with you every single hour, bringing you fresh water and pieces of bread without your father's knowledge. He draws in a surprised breath of air each time he's reminded of the wounds on your face, shaking his head with very little to add because he knows you're not one for conversation.

He returns back to the saloon to sling drinks between each visit, eventually smuggling you a bottle of whiskey to help ease some of the physical pain you're feeling and you're starting to wonder if your father is requiring him to check on you this often or if he is doing it simply to monitor your well being and keep you company.

You hold the nozzle of the whiskey bottle to your mouth, pitching your head back to swallow long pulls in an attempt to kill your aching and your memories. You fall in and out of sleep, waking up to toss in your sheets and sob toward the ceiling as you consider all of the possibilities as to where Harry's gone.

You're confident in the knowledge that no one has linked the two of you together yet - your father and his workhorse might know his name, but that's the extent of their understanding. You attempt to sort through your pile of books and read your favorites to distract you, but it's impossible to focus on the words when you're being haunted by an amalgamation of words from your father and from Harry: