The Attempt

It was dusk, and Helena and her "protector," Jerome Annas, were sitting in the apartment she had been staying in for years. The room was dimly lit by the last traces of sunlight filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. The floorboards themselves were all intact, a rare feature in such an old building, but a few of the windows bore cracks that refracted the light into strange patterns on the walls.

Helena had ensured to dust and clean every day since arriving, giving the room a refreshing smell that contrasted sharply with the rotting smell of the rest of the Gulag. The carpet, heavily worn, hinted at a past grandeur. Once, it would have displayed stunning flowers of all shapes and colors, woven into intricate patterns. Now, it was an uninspired beige, threadbare in places, with the occasional colorful thread hinting at its former beauty. The mat had a coarse feel underfoot, and combined with the unforgiving hardwood underneath, it had led to many calluses developing on Helena's feet over the years.

The bed, however, was a beacon of comfort amidst the room's faded glory. An intact mattress with fluffy pillows and a blue sheet brought a sense of color and life to the space. It was the one place where Helena could find a semblance of peace and rest. Helena and Sir Annas, as she called him, were sitting on the only chairs in the room. Both chairs were falling apart, made only of wood, their joints creaking with every movement. This made both parties of the conversation uncomfortable, constantly shifting to find balance on the uneven legs.

Their conversations, as usual, were dull and repetitive. Helena had left her room only thrice since arriving in the manor, each time escorted by at least two men guarding her down the streets. Her limited experiences outside the apartment had led Jerome to misjudge her knowledge and insight, thinking them lacking. This misjudgment caused the cocky and obnoxious Jerome to talk even more than he normally would, filling the room with his braggadocio.

Jerome prattled on about his business deals, boasting to an increasingly annoyed Helena about his successful monopoly on the city's slave trade. His voice was grating, a constant stream of self-aggrandizement that Helena had learned to endure with a calm exterior. Inside, she seethed at his arrogance and the vile nature of his boasts. She had become adept at dealing with this prick, maintaining her composure even when his words made her skin crawl.

Helena forced the conversation to drift towards politics, a subject she found at least marginally more interesting than Jerome's endless self-praise. As Jerome drank, his tongue loosened further, and he began to spill information that was both intriguing and disturbing. He mentioned that the king's guard had made a grave mistake, allowing a young man to escape from the Gulag. Jerome continued to rave about the escape stating that, "it's rumored that the escapee was a formed royal executioner, who had refused to kill a friend of his and been sent to the Gulag as punishment.

Jerome leaned in closer, his breath reeking of alcohol as he continued. He discussed the controversy surrounding the clergy and their machinations to influence the line of succession. The current king was aging, and the debate over his successor was fierce. The clergy, it seemed, favored the younger of the king's sons, a devout follower of Yuran, the world's main religious group. This younger son was seen as more pliable, and more easily controlled by the religious elite. This added another level of intrigue to the conflict and made the topic of royalty an even more prominent news item than usual.

Helena listened intently, her mind racing with the implications of Jerome's words. She knew that knowledge was power, and even in her confined state, she could use what she learned to her advantage. As Jerome continued to babble, Helena's thoughts drifted to the young man who had escaped the Gulag. How had he done it? And could she do the same?

The room grew darker as the last light of dusk faded, leaving Helena and Jerome in near darkness. The creaking of the chairs and Jerome's slurred voice were the only sounds that broke the silence. Helena's eyes adjusted to the dim light, her mind sharp and focused despite the dullness of the conversation. She would bide her time, gather information, and when the moment was right, she would act. For now, she played the role expected of her, listening to Jerome's boasts with feigned interest, all the while plotting her next move.

Jerome's speech was reaching unintelligible levels, and his breath was causing Helena to gag. His words slurred together, becoming a toxic mix of alcohol and arrogance. He reached over the table and touched her shoulder, his grip heavy and unsteady. Helena backed away, frightened. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Jerome ignored her question, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He continued his advance, his bulky frame looming over her. With each step forward, Helena retreated further, until her back pressed against the cold, unforgiving wall of the room. Panic surged through her as she realized she was cornered, with no way to escape.

He touched her shoulder again, his hand rough and invasive. This time, he began to massage it, his fingers digging into her skin. Helena flinched, trying to twist away, but there was nowhere to go. His other hand reached out to stroke her cheek, the contrast between his harsh touch and her soft, snowy white skin stark and unsettling. Jerome's breath washed over her, rancid with the stench of alcohol, making her stomach churn.

As he continued to touch her, his fingers traced a slow, deliberate line from her shoulder up over her neck, sending shivers of revulsion through her body. He paused for a moment, his thumb brushing the curve of her jaw, before sliding it up to her chin. Helena's heart pounded in her chest, her breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. She wanted to scream, to fight, but fear had paralyzed her.

Jerome's grip intensified, his fingers digging into her flesh as he forced her to raise her head. "Look at me," he demanded, his voice a low, menacing growl. Helena had no choice but to comply, her eyes meeting his. She saw a dangerous mix of desire and power in his gaze, a look that made her blood run cold.

Tears welled up in Helena's eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She knew she had to stay strong, to keep her wits about her, even in the face of such overwhelming fear. Jerome's hand remained on her chin, holding her in place, as if asserting his control over her.

The room seemed to close in around them, the walls pressing in on Helena as Jerome's touch became more insistent. She felt trapped, a caged bird with no means of escape. Her mind raced, searching for a way out, but all she could do was endure, waiting for an opportunity to break free from his grasp.