Page 34 of Break Me
Pushing up on tiptoes, I peek inside. And there, on a thin mattress among padded walls, sits a beautiful woman with blonde, shiny locks. She’s sitting with her legs folded, arms locked in a straitjacket, rocking slightly from side to side in time with the tune she hums.
She stops humming as her eyes come up to meet mine. My breath halts as I meet the bluest, most clear eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like gems shining in the dimly lit cell. Her face is delicately carved with high cheekbones, soft straight lips, and a straight nose. And her blonde locks seem to radiate light all on their own.
She says something in a foreign language that I think might be Russian, and when I give a slight shake of my head, she tries in an accented English. “Who are you?” she asks in a soft, clear voice.
Since the muzzle prevents me from answering, I remain still.
“A new orderly?”
Giving a shake of my head, I frown at her choice of words. An orderly seems like an attendant in a hospital, meant to help, not a guard or trainer in an unmerciful place like this.
“A doctor?” Her eyes light up with hope. “Or a therapist? Is he finally letting me get some real treatment?”
My frown deepens. Either this girl has no idea where she is, or she’s delusional. The latter seems plausible given the information Dax gave me about the padded cell. And I wouldn’t blame anyone for going mad from being here and not having the protection of Dax’s affection like I do.
But she seems quite clear-headed and sane as she gets up and approaches me with a soft smile. “Or are you a patient too?”
I take a small step back as she reaches the door, not wanting to risk anything in case she really is mad.
She leans up to get a better look at me, and a frown forms between her curved brows as she sees the muzzle. A bolt of shame has me casting my eyes down. I’m not sure why. I’ve been wearing this thing for weeks, walking the halls with Dax and facing the women on his table without a problem. But this woman doesn’t seem like any of the others here. She seems… normal. Unbroken. A lifeline to the real world outside these walls.
“No need for embarrassment.” She gives a small chuckle that holds a note of pain. “I’m in a straitjacket.”
I look back up, and we share a moment of mutual understanding as we watch each other. She might not know where she is, but clearly, she has already felt the weight of this place.
It’s her turn to avert her gaze as she confesses in a low voice, “I’m on suicide watch.” She casts a tentative glance back at me. “At least, so I think. They don’t really tell me much.” Hope fills her voice as she asks, “Have you been in a padded cell too? Do you get to roam free when you get out?”
I shake my head once, pause, and do it again.
Her hope fades as her voice lowers. “Do you get electrotherapy too? And straitjackets?” Shame laces her words as she adds another question. “And do they touch you inappropriately too?”
Holding up one finger, I answer her first question with a shake of my head—no electrotherapy. Holding up two fingers, I answer her second question the same way—no straitjackets. Lifting a third finger, I nod my head repeatedly—inappropriate doesn’t begin to cover the things that have happened to me down here.
“Do you like it? I mean… the way they touch you? Do you come?” She bites her lips together, the frown returning to her pretty brows. “It feels wrong, doesn’t it? The methods they use here? But somehow, it seems to work.”
Her eyes fall away again, and sympathy swells inside me. Because I know that shame. That struggle. It might not have the same root for me as it has for her, but I know that feeling. Stepping back to the door, I carefully reach my hand through the latch and touch my fingertips to her cheek.
Her eyes are round and glistening with moisture as she returns them to me. She doesn’t say anything as we just watch each other, but I think she gets what I’m trying to say.
It’s okay to like it.
I’m the one to break the connection, realizing more than ten minutes must have passed since I left Dax’s office. I don’t think he’s done yet—he usually leaves me out in the hall for quite a while—but I’m not about to risk anything. At least not more than I already have. So I point toward the way I came from and give her a regretful look.
She understands what I mean. “Will you be back?” she asks.
I give a tentative nod, hoping I’ll be able to. I didn’t even get to hear her sing.
“Do it after lunch if you can. The orderlies rarely come in here at that time. I think they’re on a break of their own. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
I give a nod and am about to close the hatch and scurry off, but she makes me pause as she speaks again.
“My name is Lavinia, by the way. I wish I could know yours.”
I badly want to tell her my name. But as the thought flits through my mind, I realize my name is hidden in the far back. It takes me a moment to even remember it.Emma.The word seems foreign. Somehow familiar, yet not my own. Sadness washes over me. Or maybe it’s a sense of being lost.
But when I cast a glance down at my right arm and see the tattoo, I don’t feel lost. Because I belong. Tohim.
I have no idea what this woman, who thinks this is some kind of mental facility, would think if I showed her the tattoo—that I’m sick in the head, meant to be in such a place? A place where she clearly thinks she’s meant to be too, so how bad can it be?