I can't remember the last time I had a bath. Back home we only had a shower, and most of the time the water was room temperature at best.
Still, after discovering the small door on the side of the room leads to a bathroom with a tub in it, I run a lukewarm bath. I tell myself I pick this temperature because it feels more like home. But if I'm being honest, it's because my skin is still raw from the twenty-seven minutes I spent having my face dunked into burning hot water. I'm secretly grateful, however, it wasn't hot enough to leave any marks other than flushed skin. I have enough scars on the rest of my body to remind me of my time there, and I don't need any more.
After turning the faucet on and figuring out the controls to stop the water from draining, I begin peeling off my clothes. That's when I catch my reflection in the mirror behind me, and I'm unable to stop a gasp that escapes my lips.
At first, I think my back is covered in a layer of dirt. But then I realize it's bruises and welts. My ribs are piercing against my skin like blades just beneath my flesh, and my shoulders are jagged and sharp like I've become some starved beast. Even my face is thinner, all the color drained from my once rosy cheeks. I wrap my arm over my shoulder and slide my fingers over the shiny acorn shaped scar. I don't know how long I was in that prison, but I do know that the brand has almost completely healed.
One day I'll find a way to leave this place and my scars will be a reminder of how I won by surviving. But right now, I have to close my eyes at the sight of myself.
I've never really cared much about how I look. What I do care about is how much I've changed. How much they changed me. That's why I decide to scrub every inch of my body over and over, trying to wash away the bruises and the dirt and the scum they've covered me with. I imagine the past few weeks as a thick film stuck to my skin, and it melts away into the water. The Warden, the electric batons, the beatings, the pain, and the darkness; they all dissolve and slip away until the water has turned a white-grey with the filth from my body and my mind.
When I've soaked in the bath long enough for my fingers to shrivel, I step out and wrap a towel around myself. In the back of the bathroom, I find a walk-in closet. I'm surprised to see that it's full of clothes my size and I can't help but imagine one of those robotic soldiers going to town and picking out clothes, folding them, slipping them into a bag, carrying them back to base, and putting them in this closet for a complete stranger. It's an interesting mental picture, one that almost makes me smile.
Almost.
Most of the clothes are white or black. White and black pants, t-shirts, sweaters, and undergarments. The only other colors are at the back of the closet, taking up a small section of the railing. I run my fingers over a red dress, a pink blouse, long skirts and fancy slacks with embroidered stitching along the sides. There are even a few pairs of dress shoes laid out neatly next to the rows of grey sneakers. All things I would never choose to wear.
After little thought and a lot of touching the soft fabrics, I settle for a white shirt and grey pants, uncertain if I'd even be able to manage wearing a dress and high heels if I wanted to, which I don't. I've never been a dress kind of girl, and now, covered and bruises and raw from the bath, exposure is the last thing I want. But as much as I despise the luxury, the pair of socks I slip on feel as if they were made from pure liquid silk, and I can't help wiggling my toes every few seconds to feel the angelic material.
When I've finally dressed and settled into my clean skin, I step out into the bedroom, hoping to have a nap before facing any more obstacles today. But instead of the bed, I find a soldier with short grey hair and cold pale eyes standing before me.
"Commander Jackson requests you join him for dinner."
"Requests?" I cock an eyebrow. I hate that stupid word.
The soldier just blinks at me.
"Right," I smile to myself, sit on the edge of the bed and close my eyes just for a few seconds. "I assume dinner is now, then?" I peek at him through one eye, wishing he'd be gone when I do.
But he still stands there, straight and firm as he nods once.
If I wasn't starving and slightly traumatized by the sight of my frail, thinning body; I might actually protest and insist I sleep first. But if the food is half as good as the bath and clothes, than I really shouldn't give up the opportunity to put on a few pounds.
The pack of soldiers escort me down the hall, which I notice is not the same tan color as the floors downstairs. Instead there is short, grey carpet that feels hard and slippery underneath my silky socks. We head past the elevator and around the corner where the walls are the same eggshell white and portraits of people I don't recognize sit in dark wooden frames. Past the paintings, we come to a set of brown wooden doors that look more expensive than my entire cabin and everything inside it put together.
One of the soldiers knocks gently before entering, and I'm led through a large sitting area with an electric fireplace built into a wall made of grey stones. Around it sits three white couches. Behind them is an open space with glossy wooden floors that spreads into a large room draped with red curtains and a shimmering black rug under a long dining table.
The table is much too large for just two people, but there are only two places set. One at the short end, and the other right next to it on the long side. Both chairs are empty. As I take in the luxury, I feel like I was supposed to wear a dress, and I smile to myself.
One of the soldiers pulls out the chair on the side of the table, gesturing for me to sit down. I want to roll my eyes, but the smell of something cooking in a nearby kitchen distracts me. So I sit.
The soldiers move to the front door, posting up at the corner of the stone wall just out of view. After a few seconds, I decide to scoot my plate a few inches away from the plate set for the Commander. And just as I finish distancing myself from the other place and shifting my seat, which has a gold and white striped cushion, he arrives.
He's still dressed in his blue-black uniform, and as he walks by, I spot the glimmer from a black gun holstered at his hip. He peels off his jacket and hands it off to a nearby servant who, apparently, has a talent for making herself blend in with the rest of the room.
"Did you enjoy your bath?" He sits.
Alarms go off in my head. They send vibrations through my blood causing a wave of heat to blossom from my face down my back. I have to clench my teeth to stop myself from screaming.
"There are no cameras," he says, noticing my sudden change in mood. "I receive a resource report on every room in this building. The water to time ratio was not equivalent to that of a shower."
Slowly, I lift up on my jaw and I reach for the glass of ice water at the corner of the golden place mat, making it very clear that I will not be answering.
I sip the water, and the I realize how thirsty I am. I begin taking large gulps until I'm practically chugging the liquid until it's gone. I set the glass down a little too hard, and it makes an uncomfortable sound that sends the server at the edge of the room to jump into action. He quickly retrieves the glass and refills it.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"No need to apologize Miss," the male server says quietly, his eyes darting towards Jackson.
That's when I see him sitting statue still, staring at me with his icy blue eyes.
I raise my eyebrows at him, the servant already gone.
"What?"
His lips curl into a small smile, and I see the guard at the door shift uncomfortably. "You are interesting."
"Why?" I cross my arms over my chest. "Have you never heard someone apologize to a server?" I reach for the water. "It's the polite thing to do." I force myself to only take a small drink.
"You grew up on desolated farmlands. Your manners differ from those of us who grew up in the heart of the Sectors."
"Under the watchful eye of The Guard, you mean?"
He doesn't reply. Instead, he only blinks.
Even when two servers appear from a swinging door rolling in silver carts, his eyes don't leave me. It makes me want to squirm, but I somehow manage to hold still, except for my hands, which pick at my fingernails underneath the table, an old habit.
The servants work quietly and quickly, setting silver plates in front of each of us and removing the covers to reveal a small, juicy steaks with a small bowl of mashed potatoes on the side. I don't even wait for them to finish uncovering the other sides before picking up a knife and fork from the row of silverware and digging in.
Only when I'm halfway through the steak do I notice the bowl of soup and a small plate with a single roll in the center. I take small bites, but chew them quickly, working my way through the meal much faster than anyone with any manners would.
Mom would scold me for this, not that anyone else in the house is ever very proper. We live in a log cabin next to a dirt road town where the only manners people sometimes practiced were not stealing each other's rations. But that never stopped mom from trying to teach my sister and me.
My stomach is heavy to the point of pain when I look at Jackson again, who has only taken a few small bites of his steak. Part of me wants to ask if he's even hungry, but I decide I don't really care. I take another sip of water before leaning back in my chair and staring at the centerpiece of fancy grooved white candles that clearly haven't been used.
"So why am I here?" The words hit the air between us like drums, crashing through the silence.
He swallows his food and sets his silverware down before he answers. "I was under the impression you could use a good meal."
I take a deep breath. "I mean, why am I here, sitting at this table with you? Why not have me eat in my room or wherever else your other prisoners eat?"
"My prisoners don't eat steak and freshly baked bread."
I almost laugh. "So you're saying I'm not a prisoner?"
He thinks a bed, a bath, and a nice meal is going to make forget the last month of my life—Is going to erase all that the Guard has done to me. The torture, the isolation, and even before, the times soldiers came to our town, looking for someone to abuse and steal from.
I was lucky, somehow avoiding them growing up. But others in my town and the neighboring villages were not. Sometimes they'd take everything from families, claiming they needed it to win the war against the Casters. It's their excuse for everything and anything.
"You are a guest in which I have removed from prison only under the condition you work for me."
"And what is it you want me to do for you, Commander?" I fold my arms across the table, clasping my hands together and giving him my full attention.
He only blinks.
"I'm pretty sure if you know my age and my charges, you've seen my file. So, surely you also know that I haven't used any magic in prison. If I had, we probably wouldn't be sitting here right now. In fact, I'd probably be sitting at my dinner table enjoying dinner with my family." I pause. "Or I'd be dead."
More staring.
"Which should have made you realize that I don't practice magic. I've never even used my magic—"
"Except for your younger sister," his words send ice through my blood. "Ella White. Age fourteen. Diagnosed with a rare disease in which current technology and medicine has no cure for. A report from December stated she had a month to live. Another report from January deemed her completely cured. It seems even the irreversible nerve damage in her arms and legs had mysteriously vanished. I also read a public relations report from February that included several complaints of a family living on the edges of the void housing a witch, which I assume they stated because you refused to heal their own loved ones since each report can be traced back to a family with one or more terminally ill member."
My body is frozen, struck with shock or fear or anger. I can't figure out which, exactly.
"I've done my research, Emery White. I know you used your magic to heal your sister, and I know that when others found out what you could do they started coming to you. But you either wouldn't or couldn't repeat the procedure. Either they started threatening you or you received word that someone had reported you, because you decided it would be best to leave your family for their safety."
My tongue runs over the front of my teeth, wishing I hadn't eaten so fast because now I feel as if I might be sick.
"So, you think you've got me all figured out then?" I tick. "You know exactly what I want and how to get to me?"
"I have no intentions of getting to you, nor do I believe I have you completely figured out, as you put it. I only wish to help you and, in exchange, you help me."
I narrow my eyes, picking my next words carelessly. "Why are you so young?"
He clears his throat. "Excuse me?"
I lean in closer to the table, propping my elbows on the hard surface and gaze at him with narrowed eyes. "You have one of the highest positions a soldier can have, and yet you're only what, nineteen or twenty? How are you so young?"
His throat bobs as he swallows before answering. "I worked my way up the chain of command quicker than most."
I shake my head, crossing my arms. "I don't believe you... You've got to be the youngest commander in the Guard."
He stares at me, any sign of amusement or entitlement disintegrated. "You would be correct."
I smile, a small victory going directly to my head. "So, what does the youngest Commander in the country want with one of the worst half-blood Casters?" I don't wait for a reply. "Surely, you could find a better one. One that practices magic regularly and more efficiently than me."
"That's beside the point."
"What do you mean?"
At that, he smiles. This time it's purely out of amusement, that much is clear. "Are you always this direct, or are you purposely trying to push me?"
I narrow my eyes, watching the corners of his lips stay slightly tilted upward. "Why does me trying to push you amuse you?"
"Most people are careful not to breathe too close to me, let alone ask me personal questions."
I shrug. "Maybe you just scare them into submission."
"I'm sure I do. But I don't scare you."
It's not a question, but I answer anyways. "Why should I be afraid? You removed me from a prison where I not only was starved and isolated, but I was also tortured. And all of those soldiers and guards were still afraid of me, even as they beat me."
He narrows his eyes now, matching my expression. "How do you know they were afraid?"
I sit in silence for a moment, trying to choose my next words carefully. "I could feel it," I say, finally breaking his hypnotic gaze. Every ounce of fear. Every trace of hatred. Every hint of doubt. I felt it all.
He inhales, his chest and shoulders shifting. "Interesting."
I grind my teeth, glancing at the door. "Are we done here?" I watch him consider it. His eyes give away his thoughts as he weighs the options. Letting me go, which is clearly what I want, or making me stay, confirming that I am in fact, still a prisoner.
"Just answer one question for me."
I wait for him to continue.
"Do you choose not to use your magic, or are you unable?"
The tension in my jaw finds its way to my fists. My fingernails dig into my palms, almost to the point of breaking skin.
"Does it really matter?"
"Your answer may determine what I choose to do next."
"Will either answer result in me returning home anytime soon?"
His smile fades. "No." He almost looks disappointed.
I get to my feet, pull on the hem of my shirt, and look at the door. I pause, only sparing him a glance. "I don't really know." Then I walk towards the exit, and I'm silently relieved when he doesn't try and stop me.