And her name is…

“How about a shower?” Nyx offers, standing beside me and gesturing towards a door to my right. “I’ll get you something to wear, and then we can talk more over dinner?”

I flinch at the word dinner as my empty stomach turns and they notice but don’t say anything. Instead I simply nod, moving off the bed beside her and carefully testing my weight before standing. The ankle feels good and I ignore the other pains as I move to the bathroom, pulling off the tunics as I do, revealing the crimson prison clothes. I hear a gasp and turn questionably toward them for the reason but Ricard is just pushing Vera out of the room, followed by the others.

Nyx shows me all the soaps and lays out a towel for me as I remove my two layers of pants. “You’re welcome to use whatever you like, nothing will hurt you, and I will lock the door behind me. I’ll have the only key to this room, and when I come back I will knock and put some clothing options for you on that bench there,-“ she points to one right beside the door, “-and wait for you in the main area of the bedroom to show you to the dinning room.”

I nod again. “Thank you, I…”

“You don’t need to force yourself to say more,” she assures, looking over me now just in the prison red. “I’ve seen more than my fair share of mistreated people, and you don’t need to trust us right away, but you’re safe here. I will be your advocate with the others. Take your time. I won’t go off without you.”

Nodding seems to be my new default and I do, watching her close and lock the door as I move to stand in the shower. It has a curtain I can close around the space, but as soon as I do it I feel trapped. I open it again and take off the shirt and pants, starting as I usually do in my chest binding and underwear.

With no fabric between me and my armpits I can tell that I smell rancid, and start scrubbing at myself with the cloth covered in a more than generous scoop of soap. The water runs away brown with old blood and I stuff the soapy cloth into my top while I retrieve the shampoo, glancing around the room as I suds my hair.

The room is large enough to have a standing shower and a bathtub. There’s a long mirror above a vanity with a sink and I startle at it. My eyes grow wide in a sunken face and I turn to blanch at my appearance. I can count every rib I have and see the ones that have healed crookedly. The scares from my time in the cells cover each section of my skin like it was some matchstick pattern on a table cloth, and the bruises acquired over the last few days of my escape are the only signs that my skin produces colour.

There’s a light knock on the door and I brandish a shampoo bottle as the only thing within reach. Nyx comes in and looks at me, but her confusion only lasts a second as she registers the open curtain and my body turned toward the mirror. She is clever, and I’m glad for it. Her hands go up after she sets down the clothes and she walks slowly over to me.

“Let me fix the ribs.” It’s both an offer and a demand as a physician as she approaches me.

She doesn’t judge the cloth half sticking out of the chest wrap, or comment on the way I tried to take her out with a glass bottle of hair soap. When she finally crosses the room to me, she just tugs me by my hand out of the shower’s spray and takes the glass bottle from my hand to return to the shelf.

Her hands are gentle as they run from my back around the sides of my ribs the the front of my sternum. The pain is old and sharp, and she repeats the motion several times before I feel the bones straightening beneath her hands and within my skin. It takes several minutes of work, her hands moving again and again like my ribs are a clay pot she’s forming. I look down and watch her, our foreheads nearly touching as she focuses on her task until she pulls her hands away and huffs with an air of effort.

“There’s another down, though I may need to repeat the process as sometimes old wounds can shift back a little,” she muses, looking me over carefully. “I can’t do anything for malnutrition, but we can fix that over time with a decent diet.”

Her hands run down my arms to my hands, looking at the scars and I have a hard time telling myself I should pull away. She reminds me of someone, and I can’t place who it is but I find myself staring at her while she takes me in. Our hands lock and she feels my large knuckles and curved digits with distaste.

“He broke your fingers!?” She grumbles. “I know he’s a twisted prick but he never fails to surprise me.”

She laces her fingers with mine on both hands and slowly pulls our hands apart while gripping my fingers between hers. Again it aches, and she repeats the process several times before I see my knuckles start to shrink and heal correctly. When she’s through I wiggle my fingers and turn my hands over in front of my face.

“I didn’t realize how hard they were to move,” I mumble, picking up the shampoo and conditioner from the shelf just to hold them. “This…” the words catch in my throat and I have to force them out, “this is how my hands are supposed to work?”

You will not cry. You willnotcry. You are not safe here just because you’ve seen a healer.

She pats my shoulder gently and then squeezes, seemingly aware of my own internal battle. “Take your time, I’ll be in the other room when you’re ready.”

I stare at myself in the mirror again. My eyes are red with rejected tears, and I cover up all those feelings with pain. My sternum looks normal, and there’s no pain when I breath. This is how my body is supposed to feel and as much as my mind accepts that I still have a hard time forcing myself to take full breaths.

I finish with my hair, noticing how their lightly fragrant soaps leave my hair looking more vibrant where the colour is lightening. The last step is to remove the chest wrap and underwear and I do so delicately, feeling the slight ache in my shoulder when I touch the area Wulfric bit me. His teeth marks are taking longer to heal than anything ever has and that’s something I wasn’t aware could happen.

I turn off the water, my hand hesitating over the faucet before I force myself to turn it off. My fingers brush the towel and flinch away, not sure if I’ve felt it or touched a wild cat. The material is so soft that I go back to try again, unraveling it to wrap around my shoulders like a cape. I feel bad touching the perfect fabric to my imperfect skin, sure it’ll come away looking dirty. But it doesn’t.

It looks like me. Clean but rumpled. The fabric bunches around in fine clumps where I’ve soaked it. It has seen more in its time than its clean appearance would have you believe. This towel is more like me than any living being I know.

-

I move to the clothes, noting every option is a dress but not a single option is red. Not about to be caught in a dress, I pinch two areas at the front and tuck them between my legs and up to the waistband at the back. After I’ve adjusted the material around my thighs I have made effective pants that I can tolerate wearing.

Nyx doesn’t comment on what I’ve done to her dress and I don’t ask about shoes when I see her own feet bare. My feet detest shoes anyway, and if it’s common in the house I feel less worried that it’s a tactic to keep me from running.

“Ready?” She asked, gesturing to the door.

I nod like I’ve lost my tongue and follow beside her, taking in every window, exit and person I see. The walls are like those in the bedroom, done in blues or indigos and colour is brought in through reds and oranges in flowers, pictures, fabrics, and warm wood stains. I was on the second floor and I can see the stairs to the main entry just ahead. I look ahead to another hall passed the stairs that seems to go on for a ways before shooting of into two directions to what I can only assume is more bedrooms, but I will memorize as much of this place as I can. I will not be caught out of my element again.