WHISPERED SINS

4- "If I get better, he will be here."

Like her bedroom, the bathroom was cold and monotonous. Clean towels were arranged on the rack. There was a bathtub, a shower, and a toilet. A small circular mirror had been adjusted above the sink.

It looked relatively new. She wondered if the Məhv Edən had it placed because she was coming here. He did not seem to be a man who had any empathy in his heart.

The fear reflected in Murata's eyes spoke volumes about her ruthless master. He was a frightening man, feared almost as much as the Kral.

She turned on warm water and let the tub fill up as she stripped the filthy rags off her body. The water felt so good against her bruised skin. She took the small bar of soap and lathered it against herself, cleaning away the blood and the grime.

My first bath in 18 months.

Prisoner 112 stared at the water, trying to process everything that had happened to her that day.

Maybe she was going into shock because she knew that any sane person in her place would be crying or begging to be freed.

But she couldn't muster the courage to cry or beg. A hopeless sense of defeat had gripped her soul since the moment she had been selected for the task.

Her body was protesting loudly at every movement. She closed her eyes, trying to relax her strained muscles. She was exhausted. Her eyes felt so heavy...

She woke up with a jolt, shivering because the water had gone cold. She realised she had slept through the bath.

She got up hurriedly, grabbed a towel off the rack, and wrapped it around herself. She went to the closest and looked through the gowns.

All of them were a vibrant shade of red. Sleeveless, open, and flowy. She saw no clothes or undergarments except for a couple of flimsy knickers, which would rip if pulled with force.

"Your wardrobe is stocked with clothes befitting your task."

She recalled Murata's words. Befitting her task.

She made a noise in the back of her throat. Trying not to look at the gowns, she grabbed one and wore it quickly. There was no clock in the room, but it must be near dinner time because she heard a knock on the door.

Murata stepped inside, carrying a tray laden with bread, slices of cheese, vegetable soup, and a jug of cold water with a glass.

"You must be famished, my lady. Please eat. You look like you could do with a decent meal."

Still not looking at Prisoner 112, she placed the food on the table. She sighed as if steeling herself from saying something, but thought better of it and left without a word.

Prisoner 112 looked at her food. She had a flashback of countless soupy meals in Alt Dənyə.

She suddenly felt queasy; all her appetite was gone. She drank a tall glass of water and went to bed.

Maybe it was the absence of the entities of Alt Dənyə whispering, cackling, and hissing into her consciousness that she slept soundly without nightmares.

She woke up to Murata drawing back the curtains, letting sunlight flood the room. She scrunched up her eyes against the glare.

"Good afternoon, my lady. You slept through the night and most of the day. Nearly 16 hours. How are you feeling now?"

"I'm fine," she croaked. Her throat was still hurting.

"I was going to bring you breakfast, but I thought it best to let you sleep and rest. My mother used to say, There is no pain a good night's sleep can't fix."