Aaron’s P.O.V:
Her reaction was so interesting; she actually gave me a chance – even after what I did to her. I was going to take her to the library to look up names in books, but she needed a wash.
Still grasping her hand in mine I lead her to the bathroom. As soon as I opened the bathroom door she tried to pull away. I growled, was I not being nice? Did she want a f*cking nicer person? I pulled her forwards; she fell on the ground at my feet.
I stared into her eyes, she was crying again – no doubt the tiles hurt – trying to calm myself. If I wanted the throne I would have to play nice with this human.
“Sorry,” I forced out. “I didn’t mean to do that. I just got angry, here,” I bent down to grab her by the shoulders and hoist her up, but again she flinched. “Would you like a bath?” I asked. She nodded her head, her dirty brown hair bobbing up and down.
I turned the taps on with one hand, the other hand still holding onto her shoulder. She looked as if she would faint any second. I felt the water. It was fine.
I let my hand slide down her shoulder to her elbow, to her wrist. That is where I grabbed her and began taking my top off of her fragile body. She was struggling against me, did she not remember that I had seen her naked before? When she realised that I wasn’t letting go she stopped moving and just started whimpering.
I let go ashamed. Why I was feeling this way was beyond me. I never felt remorse, or shame until now. She slipped into the water. I could see the dirt coming off her small body. I reached into a cupboard and took out a scrubbing brush and some soap.
Grabbing her arm I began to scrub, I wanted all the dirt and grime to be gone. I took a peek at her face, it was an image of pain. I stopped.
“What’s wrong, sweet?” I asked, using a soft voice.
“Y-your hur-hurting me.” She explained. I wasn’t aware that I was scrubbing so hard, or that I was holding on to her to tightly. I let go, realising that now her skin was a red colour.
“You can do the rest, sweet. I’ll sit here.” I told her, handing her the brush.
I watched as she gently washed the dirt off her body, I now noticed that she was very small and fragile – just like her emotions. When she was done I came up to her and emptied the bath.
“Now you have to do your hair.” I said, trying very hard to not look at her body. “I’ll do that for you, sweet.” I offered. She nodded her head.
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When I had finished washing her hair – it was a very light strawberry blonde colour – I had made her stand up, assessing the damage. What I saw shocked me, she had bruises everywhere. Most I could tell where from me, my hand print was very evident.
I was horrified, how could I have injured someone so badly. Even on her wrist just then was a nasty purple bruise and I hadn’t even meant to hurt her. No wonder she was scared of me.
I could not look at it any longer. I walked into the closet and grabbed some of my boxers and another one of my shirts for her to wear. I chucked them at her and watched her get dressed.
“Come on now. I must find you a name.”
The delight and shock on her face was so evident when we walked into the library that I almost laughed. She looked as if she had never seen a book before, which, now that I think of it, is quite possibly. I would have to ask her about her past later.
I pulled her to the back of the library, looking for the book of names. When I found it I couldn’t help but think; I wanted her name to be something that suited her. Like a name with a meaning of little one or weak or childish or small.
After looking through the ‘A’ section I came across the name Ayesha; meaning small one in Gaelic. It was perfect.
“Ayesha,” I murmured. “Sweetie, do you like the name ‘Ayesha’?” I asked in the softest voice I could imagine. She looked up at me, staring intently in my eyes.
“Yes, I-I like it v-very much.” She whispered.
“That’s good, Ayesha suits you perfectly.” I said, half smiling at her overjoyed expression. Her eyes where sparkling with joy, a slow smile creeping it’s way over her face.
“So, Ayesha, how old are you?” I asked, chuckling slightly when she looked up at the sound of her name.
“Sixt-teen, master.” She replied. I was shocked, no wonder she had no name; she was probably born into slavery. I wondered what it would be like, born as a slave, grown up as a slave – never being able to run around, to learn – it would have been horrible.
“Okay,” I said rather slowly. “I want to take you to meet someone.” With that I grabbed her arm, taking her out of the library and into Jakes room.