Chapter 4

I'd been living in this big house for three days.

Samuel was pretty harsh, but he never really threw me out.

First thing in the morning, I couldn't find the bathroom anywhere.

This house was just way too huge, with doors everywhere—every door looked the same to me.

"Where's the bathroom... where is it..." I mumbled, getting more and more desperate.

I was so anxious I started stomping my feet, just pacing and spinning around the hallway like a lost puppy.

Back at the orphanage, there were always signs by the bathrooms with little stick figures on them.

I searched that long hallway for ages, but the walls were totally bare—nothing at all.

My belly ached worse and worse, like it was about to burst.

I tried to hold it in, but it was like my body wasn't mine anymore.

Warm liquid trickled down my legs, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

My pants were soaked.

"Ah..." I whimpered, my heart pounding with panic.

Oh no, what did I do?

How could this happen? I was supposed to be a big kid now! The orphanage director, Grace Moore, always said only babies wet their pants.

Only naughty kids did that. Everyone would laugh at me.

The floor was covered in a huge puddle.

I was scared out of my mind.

If that fat lady saw me, she'd call me dirty again.

If Samuel saw me, he'd totally toss me out for the dogs to eat.

I quickly squatted down and tried to wipe up the puddle with my sleeve.

I just wanted to clean it up and pretend nothing ever happened.

But my sleeve got soaked, and the more I wiped, the worse it got. A stinky smell started to fill the air.

"What are you doing?" a harsh shout barked from above.

I froze all over.

No need to look up—I already knew it was Samuel.

This was it. This was the end. The words echoed in my mind as I squeezed my eyes shut, a wave of despair washing over me.

Samuel stood frozen in the doorway. His face had gone frighteningly pale, his lips trembling.

The harshness in his eyes from before was gone, replaced by something I couldn't understand... something that looked like fear.

Across the room, Samuel stood rooted to the spot, stunned into silence. I was huddled on the floor in the middle of the spreading puddle, my sweater sleeve soaked through, scrubbing mindlessly at the boards.

Back and forth, back and forth, like a child desperately trying to erase a mistake.

The sharp, acrid smell hung thick in the air, but it seemed to barely register with him. Instead, a cold dread snaked its way up his spine, chilling him to the core.

For three days, he had watched me.

He thought I was just pretending, acting like a down-and-out beggar to win some sympathy.

But could any performance, no matter how skilled, sink to this?

Could someone truly fake the complete loss of human dignity?

"Emily!" The roar ripped from his throat, shattering the tense silence. "Get up! Now!"

The sudden command startled me so badly I stumbled backward, landing squarely in the damp patch with a soft, final splash.

My heart sank. It was over.

A choked sob escaped me, then another, until I was crying openly, my face crumpling.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, mister..." The words tumbled out between ragged breaths as I tried to shrink away, curling in on myself like a frightened, soaked animal. "I didn't mean to... I couldn't find the bathroom... I can't find my way home...

"I'm not garbage... please don't throw me out... please..."

I was crying so hard I could barely breathe, my thoughts a jumbled mess.

The familiar fog in my mind began to swirl, and vague, fractured images pushed their way to the surface.

"That... that man..." I buried my face in my knees, my voice muffled and broken by tears. "He didn't mind that I was dirty..."

I remembered a time—a sharp, piercing memory. I'd woken up once, my stomach a tight knot of pain, to find the bedsheets stained a dark red.

I'd braced myself for anger, for shouts about ruining things. But it never came.

Instead, he'd gently lifted me, changed the soiled sheets, and rubbed his warm hands together before pressing them softly against my aching stomach.

He'd kissed my forehead, his voice a soothing murmur. "It's okay, Emily. Just rest. The pain will pass."

"Where are you? Help me... I'm scared..." I wailed into the empty air, my hands clawing at nothing, trying to grasp the fading shadow of that memory.

"Who are you calling for?" The question was a whisper, so quiet it was almost ghostly, yet it carried a bone-deep chill.

I lifted my head, my vision blurred, and stared at him blankly.

"I'm looking for... the one who was kind to me.

"He used to give me baths... he never minded that I was dirty..." I whispered, my voice trembling.

A muscle in Samuel's jaw twitched violently. "Good. He didn't mind. Well, I do."

His hand shot out, fingers closing like a vice around my upper arm.

The grip was brutal, biting into flesh and bone.

He hauled me upright from the wet floor, my feet scrambling for purchase, and dragged me bodily into the adjoining bathroom.

"Clean it!" he snarled, yanking the shower handle. A blast of icy water cascaded from the showerhead, drenching me instantly. "Wash it off! Wash every trace of that man off you!"

The water was freezing. I shuddered violently, huddling into the corner of the tub, too terrified to move.

He was getting soaked too, cold water dripping from the cuffs of his tailored trousers, but he seemed utterly oblivious.

His gaze remained locked on me, fierce and unyielding.

"Three years. This is what you've been reduced to? Where is he?"

He tightened his grip on my wrist, his voice rising. "That wealthy man! Is he dead? Did he leave you to scavenge from trash cans?"

I didn't understand the questions. They meant nothing. I just wanted to go home. To the home in my foggy memories.

Panic overrode everything else. I thrashed against his hold, a wild, desperate animal trying to escape a cold cage.

"Let me go! I don't want to! It's too cold!" My pleas dissolved into incoherent cries. "Help me... someone help..."

"Shut up!" Samuel's patience snapped. Enraged, he grabbed the sodden, soiled fabric of my jacket, trying to wrench it off. "Get this filth off you! Now!"

"No! Don't take it!" The scream tore from my throat, raw with terror. The money, the tin box for him—they were hidden inside. He couldn't have them.

My fingers, white-knuckled, clenched the filthy collar. When he didn't relent, a survival instinct, primal and sharp, took over. I lunged forward and sank my teeth into the hand trying to strip me.

A sharp rip tore through the quiet of the bathroom.

The fabric strip wound tightly around my waist gave way under the violent tug.

With a heavy clatter, the rusted metal box I'd kept bound firmly against my skin slammed onto the wet bathroom tiles.

Its lid flew open, scattering three dollars and fifty cents in coins across the floor.

A paper parcel, swaddled in multiple layers of plastic bags, slid out and came to rest silently in a shallow puddle of water.

Samuel's movements froze.

His gaze followed the fallen box, then slowly lifted to me.

My outer jacket had been ripped open, pulling up the thin sweater beneath.

Under the stark light of the heat lamps, my exposed skin told a grim story. Around my abdomen, the skin was raw, red, and ulcerated from the constant friction of the rusted box.

In some spots, dark scabs had formed, only to be torn open again by the cold water, oozing murky blood.

But the most shocking sight was on the left side of my waist. There, a grotesque, twisted scar—like some monstrous centipede—lay etched into her flesh.

It was old, crudely stitched as if mending a sack, with the tissue sunken and puckered inward, as though something vital had been carved right out of me.

The air seemed to solidify. Only the steady stream of cold water from the showerhead broke the stillness.