I felt something in me snap, and I spun around to face her, my face only inches away from hers. “Are you serious right now? That’s what you have to say? Dad is dead, Mom. He is dead, and I had to burn his body on the side of the road by a cornfield that I’ll never see again. I’ll never remember where it was. And Caspar is probably dead too. People are dying. I just spent five days trying to get to you, starving and freezing and running from stupid Awakened, okay? And yeah, one of them cut my face. Whether I’m still beautiful or not isn’t the thing to worry about right now. But I’m glad you have your priorities straight.”
I flashed a look over at Ash and turned on my heel, stomping up the stairs, crossing the hallway to my room and slamming the door behind me. My shoulders shook, and I could feel the blood boiling under my skin. I clenched my fists tight before taking a deep breath and releasing them. I kicked off my boots and peeled all my clothes off, leaving only my tank top and underwear on. I climbed up into my bed and was about to turn off the light when Ash came in.
“Next time, it would probably be a good thing to knock, Ash,” I said, dryly.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding very sorry. “Did I almost walk in on something exciting?”
“You wish,” I said, pulling the covers up to my chin. “Did you need something?”
“Your mom sent me up here. She didn’t look very happy.”
“She tends to not look very happy when I’m around,” I admitted. “What did you need?”
“I’m exhausted, and I just really want to sleep,” he said, looking longingly toward the bed.
I shook my head. “No way. You’re not sleeping in this bed. There’s a guest bedroom down the hall.”
He sighed. “I don’t have to sleep in the bed. I can sleep on the floor. I just…I don’t really want to be alone. Not yet.”
I softened a little at the words. “No funny business?”
The corners of his lips twitched a bit. “No funny business,” he promised.
I relented. “There’s a trundle bed under this bed. You just slide it out. You can sleep there.”
He smiled. “Thank you, Z.”
“Zoey,” I corrected sleepily, turning away as he slid the bed out from underneath mine. I heard him getting ready for bed, and the creak of the mattress as he lay down. I stayed awake, listening for the sound of his deep breathing and his soft snores before I fell into sleep myself.
When I woke in the morning, sunlight was streaming through the pale pink curtains that lined my large windows. I blinked several times, my eyes adjusting to the brightness. I rolled over, my hair tangled across my pillow, and looked down at the trundle bed. It was empty, blankets tossed to the side.
I climbed out of bed, my socks hitting the hardwood floors. I walked over to the dressers set right across from the bed and nearly cried with happiness at the sight of clothes in them. I wasn’t completely positive that they would fit but they were my clothes and I wanted nothing more than to take off the dirty, bloody, torn clothing that I was wearing.
I grabbed a new outfit, a soft t-shirt and jeans, and a new pair of underwear and a perfect, clean bra. I held them close to me, smelling the lemon-scented detergent. I took them to the bathroom, and grabbed a towel from the cupboard. I stripped, tossing the dirty, offensive clothing in the trashcan. I would burn them later. I never wanted to see that clothing again.
The water was miraculously warm. It wasn’t hot, like I would have hoped. Back home, I loved my showers hot and scalding, leaving my back bright red when I stepped out of the shower. But after washing in frozen cold streams, a lukewarm shower felt like heaven. I stayed under the water for what felt like hours, washing my hair, scrubbing it clean with coconut-scented shampoo. The bottom of the tub was a mix of blood and dirt, and I watched as it washed down the drain until the water at my feet was clear. I scrubbed and scrubbed until my skin felt raw.
I climbed out of the shower, wrapping the towel tight around me as I sifted through the drawers and cabinets in search of a comb. I found one quickly and went to work on the impossible tangles and knots that had worked their way into my hair over the past week. I winced as the comb tore out strands of my hair, falling in swirls toward the wet floor.
I found as many products underneath the sink as I could. I rubbed cocoa butter lotion all over my chapped skin, ignoring the puckered skin of my scars over my body. I brushed my teeth, feeling the glorious minty feeling in my mouth. I searched the drawers for make-up, powder, cover-up, something but there was nothing to be found. I sighed and put the clothes on, enjoying the softness of the clean fabric.
Voices reached my ears as I made my way downstairs and across the foyer to the kitchen. I paused when I heard the low rumble of Ash’s voice and the clear mid-western accent of my mother’s.
“She’s been through a lot,” Ash was saying. “I don’t think reminding her of the cut on her face is going to be helpful for you. And I did the best I could to fix it. I’m not exactly a doctor.”