I Am No One's Property

5 full minutes under piping hot water, 2 bars of soap both smelling of lavender, a bottle of shampoo meant only for my hair, and the touch of soft, plush towels I dare to wrap around my body and I begin to understand.

They want me to forget.

They think they can wash away my memories, my loyalties, my priorities with a few hot meals and a room with a view. They think I am so easily purchased.

They fucking think I can be bought like this. Ha. I almost laugh in hysteria.

Death doesn't seem to understand that I don't want it. didn't want the clothes or the perfect shoes or the expensive anything. I didn't want to be draped in silk. All I ever wanted was to reach out and touch another being not just with my hands but with my heart. I saw the world and its lack of compassion, its harsh, grating judgment, and its cold, resentful eyes. I saw it all around me.

I had so much time to listen.

To look.

To study people and places and possibilities. All I had to do was open my eyes. All I had to do was open a book—to see the stories bleeding from page to page. To see the memories etched onto paper.

I spent my life folded between the pages of books.

In the absence of human relationships, I formed bonds with paper characters. I lived love and loss through stories threaded in history; I experienced adolescence by association. My world is one interwoven web of words, stringing limb to limb, bone to sinew, thoughts and images all together. I am a being composed of letters, a character created by sentences, a figment of imagination formed through fiction.

Even when I trained Shane, I had to keep my distance from him, trying not to get attached to him. He was going to be the king of Hell anyway.

They want to delete every point of punctuation in my life from this place and I don't think I can let that happen.

I slip back into my old clothes and tiptoe into the bedroom only to find it abandoned. Jason is gone even though he said he would stay. I don't understand him I don't understand his actions I don't understand my disappointment.

I wish I didn't love the freshness of my skin, the feel of being perfectly clean after so long; I don't understand why I still haven't looked in the mirror, why I'm afraid of what I'll see, why I'm not sure if I'll recognize the face that might stare back at me.

I open the armoire.

It's bursting with dresses and shoes and shirts and pants and clothing of every kind, colours so vivid they hurt my eyes. The sizes are perfect too perfect.

This is what it used to be in the palace.

They've been waiting for me.

The sky is raining bricks right into my skull.

I've been neglected, abandoned ostracized and dragged from my home. I've been starved. I've been tempted with friendship only to be left betrayed and trapped into this nightmare I'm expected to be grateful for. My parents. My teachers. Jason. Death. I am expendable to all of them.

They think I'm a doll they can dress up and twist into prostration.

But they're wrong.

"Death is waiting for you."

I spin around and fall back against the armoire, slamming it closed in the craze of panic clutching my heart. I steady myself and fold away my fear when I see Jason standing at the door. His mouth moves for a moment but he says nothing. Eventually, he steps forward so forward until he's close enough to touch.

He reaches past me to reopen the door hiding the things I'm embarrassed to know to exist. "These are all for you," he says without looking at me, his fingers touching the hem of a purple dress, a rich plum colour good enough to eat.

"I already have clothes." My hands smooth out the wrinkles in my dirty, ragged outfit.

He finally decides to look at me, but when he does his eyebrows trip, his eyes blink and freeze, his lips part in surprise. I wonder if I've washed off a new face for myself and I flush, hoping he's not disgusted by what he might see. I don't know why I care.

He drops his gaze. Takes a deep breath. "I'll be waiting outside."

I stare at the purple dress with Adam's fingerprints I study the inside of the armoire for only a moment before I abandon it. I comb anxious fingers through my wet hair and steel myself.

I am no one's property.

And I don't care what Death wants me to look like.

I step outside and Jason stares at me for a small second. He rubs the back of his neck and says nothing. He shakes his head. He starts walking. He doesn't touch me and I shouldn't notice but I do. I have no idea what to expect I have no idea what my life will be like in this new place and I'm being nailed in the stomach by every exquisite embellishment, every lavish accessory, every superfluous painting, moulding, lighting, the colouring of this building. I hope the whole thing catches fire.

I know I had grown up in this, but looking at how much of a psychotic maniac the ruler is, I changed my mind.

I follow Jason down a long carpeted corridor to an elevator made entirely of glass. He swipes the same key card he used to open my door and we step inside. I didn't even realize we'd taken an elevator to get up this many floors. I realize I must've made a horrible scene when I arrived and I'm almost happy.

I hope I disappoint Death in every possible way.

The dining room is big enough to feed thousands of orphans. Instead, there are 7 banquet tables draped across the room, blue silk spilling across the tabletops, crystal vases bursting with orchids and stargazer lilies, glass bowls filled with gardenias. It's enchanting. I wonder where they got the flowers from. They must not be real. I don't know how they could be real. Hell has no flowers.

Death is positioned at the table directly in the middle, seated at the head.

As soon as he sees me Jason he stands up. The entire room stands in turn. I realize almost immediately that there is an empty seat on either side of him and I don't intend to stop moving but I do. I take a quick inventory of the attendees and can't count any other women.

Jason brushes the small of my back with 3 fingertips and I'm startled out of my skin. I hurry forward and Death beams at me. He pulls out the chair on his left and gestures for me to sit down. I do.

I try not to look at Jason as he sits across from me.

"You know . . . there are clothes in your armoire, my dear." Death sits down beside me; the room resets itself and resumes a steady stream of chatter. He's turned almost entirely in my direction but somehow the only presence I'm aware of is direct across from me. I focus on the empty plate 2 inches from my fingers. I drop my hands in my lap. "And you don't have to wear those dirty tennis shoes anymore," Death continues, stealing another glance before pouring something into my cup. It looks like water.

I'm so thirsty I could inhale a waterfall.

I hate his smile.

Hate looks just like everybody else until it smiles. Until it spins around and lies with lips and teeth carved into the semblance of something too passive to punch.

"Loralie?"

I inhale too quickly. A stifled cough is ballooning in my throat.

His glassy green eyes glint in my direction.

"Are you not hungry?" Words dipped in sugar. His gloved hand touches my wrist and I nearly sprain it in my haste to distance myself from him.

I could eat every person in this room. "No, thank you."

He licks his bottom lip into a smile. "Don't confuse stupidity for bravery, love. I know you haven't eaten anything in days."

Something in my patience snaps. "I'd really rather die than eat your food and listen to you call me love," I tell him.

Jason drops his fork.

Death spares him a swift glance and when he looks my way again his eyes have hardened. He holds my gaze for a few infinitely long seconds before he pulls a gun out of his jacket pocket. He fires.

The entire room screams to a stop.

My heart is flapping wings against my throat.

I turn my head very, very slowly to follow the direction of Death's gun only to see he's shot some kind of meat right through the bone. The platter of food is slightly steaming across the room, the meal heaped less than a foot away from the guests. He shot it without even looking. He could've killed someone.

It takes all of my energy to remain very, very still.

Death drops the gun on my plate. The silence gives it space to clatter around the universe and back. "Choose your words very wisely, Loralie. One word from me and your life here won't be so easy."

I blink.

Jason pushes a plate of food in front of me; the strength of his gaze is like a white-hot poker pressed against my skin. I look up and he cocks his head the tiniest millimetre. His eyes are saying Please.

I pick up my fork.

Death doesn't miss a thing. He clears his throat a little too loudly. He laughs with no humour as he cuts into the meat on his plate. "Do I have to get Desano to do all my work for me?"

"Excuse me?"

"It seems he's the only one you'll listen to." His tone is breezy but his jaw is unmistakably set. He turns to Jason. "I'm surprised you didn't tell her to change her clothes like I asked you to."

Jason sits up straighter. "I did, sir."

"I like my clothes," I tell him. I'd like to punch you in the eye, is what I don't tell him.

Death's smile slides back into place. "No one asked what you like, sweetie. Now eat. I need you to look your best when you stand beside me."