Forced Into Insanity

Chapter 2: Wounds

— Francesca —

My palm hurries to cover my face as sunlight pierces through my skin, causing my pale figure to become blemished. Overwhelming heat rushes to my face, making my features look swollen. My lips are a tint pinker than they usually are. I tilt my head to the side expecting to cast my eyes on my kitchen. I'm greeted with a foreign kitchen, one nothing like my own; tinted cabinets and stained oak filling the space. The apartment, or, what looks to be an apartment, is filled with a vanilla scent. It's exceptionally clean. I try to stand upright but my body resists my attempts at moving, causing me to wince. My hand reaches to cover my waist. I look to see the area heavily smeared with blood, or more accurately, dried blood. My hand immediately recoils. I force myself to look at bandaged area only to see dried blood. My head instantly swarms with thoughts, logical assumptions to jump to, something to explain why I was bleeding and why I'm here.

I decide to take a look around. I mean it looks to be quite an expensive apartment and I'm already here so why not? Once the pain subsides, I'm able to stand fully upright. I discover that I'm barefoot. Where have my shoes gone? They must be by the door, surely. I scavenge for the remainder of my belongings as those too have gone missing. Was I drunk last night? But a meaningless one-night-stand would have never given me a wound, or I'd have slept with a kidnapper. I peer into a corridor. There's a room off to the side, presumably, a bedroom. I open the door to discover a tiny master suite, a bed only slightly bigger than a twin tucked into the far corner with matching nightstands at either side. Isn't that my bag in the corner? How did my bag get in here? Whatever. At this point, I just want to get out of here. One of the walls seems to have marble wallpapering, this feature wall carries a collection of randomly assorted paintings. The dresser beneath is where my eyes land. This whole place feels too big to have such a small bedroom. My hand slips around the handles of the individual drawers and I start looking for something to cover me as my blouse is torn from whatever I did last night. How do I seriously not remember what happened? Was the wound that bad? It suddenly hits me,

I've been given sleeping pills.

Is it to cope with the pain of the wound? or did whoever take me in have to operate on me? My thoughts are interrupted by the front door shutting.

Crap.

Think you idiot! What could I possibly use as an excuse as to why I'm in this person's bedroom? I could say I was looking for clothes but that would make it look like I wanted to steal one of their shirts like a stalker.

I decide to take a sweatshirt and cradle it close to my body to hide any exposed skin. My blouse is torn right below my chest which is just lovely considering the situation that I'm in. I decide to just wear the damn thing. I hear footsteps outside.

Well I mean no shit you heard the front door shut.

Sometimes I wish I could think a tiny bit faster.

I quietly shut the bedroom door behind me and go to the kitchen. This is where I meet my fate.
"I'm sorry to be taking an item of clothing from you, sir. My blouse was torn..uh..torn quite a bit." Heat rushes to my face as I try to excuse myself. What have I done? I messed up. I should have just left when I had the chance.
"It's alright. You feeling better? You looked pretty messed up last night." He enquires.

Well that wasn't what I expected.

"Yes. I'm sorry to trouble you, sir, but, I don't seem to remember what happened last night. How..h-how did you find me?" I question, slightly uncertain.
"You passed out a few blocks past a popular restaurant. You looked to be in need of help so I thought I should patch you up." Something about the way he's telling me all of this so casually is unsettling but what do I have against him? I don't even know him.
"Of course, th-thank you, sir." I bow ever so slightly and excuse myself. I put on my shoes to leave but he stops me. He just..stares at me. He's staring at me far too long for comfort but I'm too embarrassed by the situation at hand to ask.
"Who do you happen to be, if I may ask?" He speaks up. Why does he care?
"I don't believe we'll be meeting any time soon, sir. Thank you for your help though." I comment, now uncomfortable.
"Precisely, I only asked for your name so as not to just call you miss. I wish you the best miss.."
"Francesca Heart. Thank you again. I'll be off now." I wave him a quick goodbye and he only smiles in return.