The Object

The water had long gone lukewarm when I finally forced myself to move. My skin was flushed, tender, but scrubbed clean. I climbed from the bath on unsteady legs, water trailing down my body and dripping onto the tiles. The collar felt heavier now that the rest of me was clean, an alien weight that didn’t belong to this body - and yet declared it.

I wrapped myself in a towel from the rail and stepped back into the room.

They were waiting.

Miss Clearway and Miss Waters stood near the desk, composed as always. Between them, a woman I didn’t recognise had laid out small jars, cloths, and bottles in careful order. She was older, her greying hair plaited close to her head, her expression calm in that way people wore when they had seen far worse before.

On the desk beside her sat a plate of food - plain bread, cold meat, slices of apple. The smell was mild, almost comforting.

“You’ll eat first,” Miss Waters said.

My stomach curled, protesting at the thought, but she nodded to the plate and her tone brooked no argument. I moved stiffly to the chair and sat. The collar clinked against the wood as I leaned forward. My hands shook, but I picked up the bread and chewed slowly. Each bite tasted like nothing. It didn’t matter. I ate until Waters gave a small approving nod.

“Good,” she said. “Now stand.”

The healer approached without a word. She worked with quiet efficiency, dipping her fingers into cool salve and smoothing it over the raised welts across my back. I hissed as the chill touched raw skin, but she only murmured, “Hold still,” and continued.

The bite on my shoulder received more care. She cleaned it gently with a cloth soaked in something that stung sharply, then packed it with a thick herbal ointment. The smell was sharp and clean, bitter beneath the rose lingering from the bath.

Clearway fetched fresh bandages from a drawer and handed them to her. The healer wrapped my shoulder in neat, secure layers, her fingers never lingering, never hesitant. Then she smoothed fragrant oil over the bruises along my ribs, working it in with practiced hands until the ache dulled to a throb.

When she stepped back at last, she nodded to Clearway, who moved to tidy away the empty jars.

“You’ll rest,” Waters said, as if it were an order rather than advice. “We’ll return later.”

I nodded faintly, swaying where I stood, the scent of herbs and rose and raw flesh clinging to me. The food sat heavy in my stomach, but it anchored me - proof I was still here, still breathing.

They began to gather their things, silent and efficient, as though this was simply another task completed.

As though I were simply something being maintained.

When the door closed behind them, silence folded over the room again like a heavy blanket. The faint scent of herbs still hung in the air, mingling with the rose from the bath and something darker that clung stubbornly to my skin, no matter how hard I had scrubbed.

My gaze drifted to the bloodied shift.

It lay crumpled near the bath where I had cast it aside, a dark, stiff ruin of fabric. I stared at it for a long time, hoping it might vanish if I waited long enough. It didn’t. It waited, patient, like it knew I had no choice.

At last, I moved. My body felt hollow, but I knelt on the cold tile, filled the basin with warm water, and plunged the shift in. The water clouded at once, red and murky. I worked at the fabric with trembling hands, scrubbing and wringing until my fingers ached. The paler smears lightened a little, turning to faint pink shadows, but the deeper stains only spread, blooming dark and stubborn. Especially where his teeth had been.

No amount of soap or effort could erase it.

When my arms gave out, I wrung the shift out as best I could and draped it over the edge of the tub to dry. The sight of it - still marked, still his - gnawed at me, but I could do nothing more.

I stumbled back into the bedroom and sank down on the bed. The floral bedding felt wrong against my raw skin, too soft, too cheerful. I lay on my side, facing the wall, my body curling in on itself like a wounded thing.

Tears slipped from my eyes, silent and steady. I didn’t sob. I didn’t have the strength for it. The tears just came, warm and relentless, trailing across my cheeks and soaking into the pillow until exhaustion pulled me under.

Sleep claimed me in silence, and the shift still dripped faintly in the other room.