Page 52 of Pastel Kisses

She gestures toward the tub with a flick of her wrist like she’s doing me a favor. I shuffle forward, dragging my heavy limbs with more effort than grace, and step in one foot at a time. The water is scalding, but I’m too numb to protest—until it touches my ankle.

The moment the heat hits the bruised, raw skin, a sharp hiss escapes through my clenched teeth. It burns like fire licking through already tender flesh, a pain so immediate and searing it sends a flash of stars across my vision.

Sarah rolls her eyes like I’m being dramatic. No sympathy. No patience. Just annoyance. “Oh, please,” she mutters under her breath, then places a hand on my shoulder and shoves me the rest of the way down. My body slips lower into the too-hot water, and the ache intensifies, radiating up through my leg as my ankle throbs violently beneath the surface.

She grabs a washcloth and lathers it with soap, the scent strong and artificial—cheap lavender with an edge of something medicinal. The cloth slaps against my skin, and she begins scrubbing with more force than necessary. There’s no tenderness in her touch, no care. Just rough, methodical movements like she’s scouring a dirty dish, not bathing another human being.

She starts at my neck, scraping the cloth down to my collarbone, over my armpits, across my chest—each pass a reminder that I’m powerless. She lingers at my breasts longer than necessary, her gaze flicking up to mine just to see the discomfort in my eyes. Then she works her way down—my stomach, my sides, my thighs—before finally reaching my feet.

And then she’s at my ankle.

I try to brace myself, but nothing prepares me for the way she digs the cloth into the raw skin surrounding the shackle. Her movements are slow, deliberate, cruel. She presses hard, circling the bruised flesh as if punishing it for existing. The sharp sting rips a whimper from my throat, my hands clenching the edge of the tub in a white-knuckled grip.

Her lips curl into a satisfied smirk.

“You’re so sensitive,” she coos mockingly, dragging the washcloth over the injury one more time with just enough pressure to make my toes curl in agony. “You should be thanking me. No one else is going to clean you up like this.”

I don’t respond. My jaw is clenched too tightly, and I refuse to give her any more satisfaction. Let her talk. Let her preen. Let her think she’s winning.

When she scrubs over the wound again—slow, cruel, deliberate—I can't hold back the instinct.

A sharp jolt of pain lances through my ankle, and I react before I can think. My leg jerks back on reflex, sloshing hot water out of the tub and soaking her front. The splash hits her square in the chest, and she gasps like I just drenched her in acid instead of bathwater.

Her eyes flash with fury.

“You little bitch!” she hisses, reaching for my leg with both hands, fingers like claws.

She wrestles my ankle toward her, her grip tight and punishing. I kick and thrash, trying to tear myself free, my heart pounding in my chest like a war drum. Pain shoots up my leg as she yanks, digging her claws into my already abused skin.

"Hold still!" she shrieks, her voice cracking as her frustration mounts.

I don’t. I won’t. I keep fighting.

That’s when she loses it.

A high-pitched squeal tears from her throat, and the next thing I know, her elbow is flying toward me. It catches me square beneath the eye, snapping my head to the side so fast my vision spins. My temple slams against the porcelain lip of the tub with a sickening thud.

White-hot pain blooms immediately, blossoming behind my eyes like fireworks gone wrong. My hand flies to my face, cupping the skin beneath my eye as tears spring forward—not from sadness, but from pure, searing pain. My breath catches in my throat, and I curl inward instinctively, trying to shield myself from another hit.

The ache throbs in waves now, the fresh injury pulsing in time with the agony in my ankle. The two pains seem to compete with each other—trading off bursts of sharp torment, racing for dominance like twisted rivals vying for my attention. My skull pounds in rhythm, my nerves frayed and buzzing with adrenaline.

“You did this to yourself,” she snarls, standing over me like the devil in yoga pants. “You’re lucky I don’t let you rot down there.”

Her words are background noise, drowned out by the ringing in my ears and the stinging tears slipping silently down my cheeks. I can’t even see her clearly anymore—just the blurred outline of a woman who’s lost every last shred of humanity.

I don’t speak. I don’t fight back again—not now. That moment has passed.

Instead, I sit in the tub, limbs trembling, blood pounding in my ears, and plot.

She shakes her head like I’ve let her down somehow, like she’s the victim in all of this.

With a low growl, she snaps, “See what you make me do? You always force my hand.” Her tone drips with indignation, but I can see the adrenaline still pulsing beneath her skin, her hands trembling slightly as she regains control. “Now lay back. I’m going to wash your hair.”

There’s no use resisting. Not right now.

So I do as she says, reclining awkwardly in the tub, wincing as the cold edge of the porcelain digs into my spine. She moves quickly, scrubbing my scalp with enough pressure to make my eyes water. Her fingers tangle through my hair like claws, nails scraping skin as she works the shampoo in. It's less cleansing and more punishment in disguise.

Hot water streams over my face as she rinses, and for a fleeting second, I imagine just slipping under the surface and never coming back up.

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