Chapter 38

• Who had spoken exactly like me? Who had used my own voice to talk to me? I was scared. Everywhere was still and quiet. I guess werewolves were still sleeping. My body ached badly all over, but I was too scared to think about it. Ever since the voice had spoken, my heart had been racing like a triathlon. I was too scared to look around me anymore for fear of the unknown. I was too scared that the strange yet familiar voice belonged to a supernatural being that might jump out of the shadows and come at me. I quickly limped to the window, trying to pull the curtains as close as the torn places would allow. I checked the door and noticed it was locked from the outside. Where did that voice come from? And even the anger and vengeance that had overwhelmed me? Those hadn’t been my initial thoughts. Yes, I remembered feeling bitter and vexed, but I couldn’t really understand how those violent emotions had come to be. Checking within me, I realized none of those emotions existed anymore; all I could hear and feel was the pounding of my own heart and the nerves twisting themselves into a frightful knot. There was no fan in the room, but the fresh air wafting through the window with broken louvers and torn drapes was enough for anyone in the room, but I was sweating. Not too much, but it was enough evidence of my fretful state. This had never happened before; I had never heard voices so clear like that before. I knew I wasn’t imagining it or hallucinating; it was real. It was as if the voice had been seated close to me, but there was no one. Something was not right.
• Those emotions I’d felt moments ago—the angry tears that had fallen, even the voice that was mine but not mine—I couldn’t explain any of them. A groan left my lips; the sweat effusing from my skin pores had touched the raw, wounded skin on my back; it really hurt. I stood on weak legs and wobbled to the smelly bathroom. I turned the tap on to check the availability of water. Thankfully, there was. I increased it a little and took a small bowl resting on an equally dusty and dirty wash basin hanging loosely on the wall. I moved away a little, cautious of its hanging state; that basin could release itself from the wall at any given time, and I wouldn’t want to be its victim; I already had too many wounds and pains to handle. I took the bowl and collected some water. Pulling off my gown, I poured some water on my back and felt the cool liquid cascade down, slithering on the whip marks as they went farther down.
• I repeated that activity three more times. Satisfied that I no longer felt salty, warm liquids hurting the rough-looking marks, I pulled back on my dress, washed my face, and limped back to the bed. I was weak, and my body needed rest. I scrutinized the bed, observing the old, worn-out pillow tucked in an also old pillowcase, my eyes traveling to its width and length, checking for any pests. Not seeing, though not trusting that there wasn’t any, I sighed, dusting and smoothing it as best as I could. There was nothing I could do; the floor was cold and hard, full of tiny stones and sands that would hurt my back and cause a lot of unease in my worn-out body.