Page 35 of Famine

Famine heads for the door. “Follow me,” he says without glancing back.

I stare after him for several seconds, not sure what to make of my situation. But I really don’t think he intends to kill me, and I need to wake up a bit more before I consider my next move, so reluctantly, I pad along after him.

Famine leads me into another bedroom. Resting on top of the mattress is the horseman’s scythe and what I have now learned are his scales. The rest of the room is full of a stranger’s things.

The Reaper crosses the room, heading to a connected bathroom, and I trail after him. There’s a fancy clawfoot tub and a toilet, both which actually look as though they’re connected to plumbing. The bathtub even has a lever to pump water in. Whoever these rich bitches were, I’m almost envious of them.

They’re surely dead.

Maybe I’m nottooenvious of them …

In front of the tub is a pitcher of water, which rests on a shallow basin. A washcloth lays on the lip of the bowl. There’s a clawfoot tub, and yet the horseman chose a pitcher and basin to bathe with. You would’ve thought a presumptuous prick like Famine would atleasttry to fill up a tub.

“Living in the lap of luxury, are we now?” I say.

“That’s for you,” he says.

Ah. Now I understand why he skipped the tub. Heaven forbid he does anything lavish for anyone else.

“Because you stink,” he adds.

“I’m blown away by your hospitality,” I say, padding over to the pitcher.

What I don’t say is that this situation is odd. Really, really odd. Famine still hasn’t killed me, and now he expects me to bathe? In his personal bathroom, no less?

Does he plan on watching?

The horseman tosses the dress he holds onto the nearby counter, leaning against the vanity a moment later. When he doesn’t leave, I realize with a jolt of surprise thatyes, he does plan on sticking around.

How scandalous!

Ignoring the pitcher of water, I head over to the tub and try the lever. I give it a test pump. Immediately, water hisses out of the spout.

It works!

Fuck that sponge bath.

Turning my back to the horseman, I begin pumping water into the basin. He doesn’t stop me either, which I half expected him too, given what a little shit he is.

It takes a long time to draw in enough water to bathe in, and the water itself is a little chilly, but eventually it fills up.

When I turn around again, Famine is still there, in the bathroom, and he makes no move to leave.

I don’t know what to think of that.

I take off my shirt, then the thin bra I wear, uncaring that Famine’s getting an eyeful of naked lady chest. This is just an average Tuesday for me.

The horseman’s gaze drops to the wounds that decorate my torso. I actually hear his sharp inhale.

And now I think I understand his reason for lingering—he wanted to see my wounds.

He pushes away from the counter, his gaze locked on my scabbed-over wounds. “They tore you apart.”

I glance down, and the memory hits me again. I can feel those men’s hands on me and I can hear the wet, meaty sound of their knives stabbing me over and over again.

“There are eleven different marks,” I say. I don’t know why I tell him.

“And I imagine you laid for a long time in pain, alone and frightened.”