Ch 10: An Abandoned Puppet
The torn silk was a dead weight in her arms.
Elena drifted through the lower corridors, a shivering specter in a thin chemise, feet numb on the cold stone. The slap still burned on her cheek. The memory of tearing fabric echoed in her ears. She wasn't looking for a hiding place anymore. She was just moving.
The hallway here was narrow, lit by dim bulbs—a service corridor, far from the grand spaces. It smelled of damp stone, bleach, and stale tobacco. No portraits watched. No one came here unless they had work to do.
Or so she thought.
As she passed the door to the laundry room, the shadows behind her moved.
"Well, well. Look who it is." A voice slid over her skin.
Elena's breath stopped as she spun around.
Marco stepped into the weak light. Silvio materialized beside him, grinning. They smelled of wine and sweat.
Marco's hungry eyes traveled over her—the thin chemise, the bare arms, the torn silk clutched to her chest. A smile spread across his face. "Lost your pretty dress, topolina?" He tutted and took a step closer. "Did the boss not like his present?"
Silvio snickered.
Elena stepped back. Her shoulders hit cold stone. The corridor was narrow—Marco and Silvio blocked the only exit.
Trapped. Again. Panic set in. Her body shook.
Marco closed the distance. He stopped close enough that she could smell his breath and see the yellowing whites of his eyes. He reached for the bundle of silk. His fingers closed over it and tugged.
She held on. A last, futile instinct.
Marco's smile turned cruel. "Let go, little mouse. It's trash now anyway."
He yanked. The fabric slithered from her numb fingers, falling to the floor in a heap.
"Better." His voice was thick with satisfaction. His gaze crawled over the thin cotton of her chemise, her narrow shoulders, her collarbones. "This is what you really are. Why hide?"
Silvio edged closer. "She's shaking, Marco."
"Course she is." Marco's voice dropped. "She knows what happens to little mice who wander out alone. Especially when the big cat's busy licking his wounds."
Big cat? Kazimir. He knew Kazimir was wounded?
Marco lifted his hand.
Elena flinched and squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the blow—the slap, the fist, the familiar impact of male violence against her flesh.
But no blow came. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her shoulder. The touch was light, almost delicate. That made it worse. The intimacy cut far deeper than Valentina's slap.
"Hmm." His thumb traced her collarbone above the chemise's edge. "So quiet. Always so quiet."
She shuddered—a tremor of revulsion she couldn't suppress. Her skin crawled where he touched.
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"I wonder…" His hand slid down her arm, grip settling around her wrist. "I wonder what it takes to make a mute girl make a sound."
Silvio's giggle was excited. "Gotta be something real special."
"Yeah." Marco breathed the word, face close to hers. His other hand hovered near the tie at her neck. "The boss doesn't want to play. That's boring." His fingers toyed with the cotton tie. Pulled. Let it go. Pulled again. "A wife like this shouldn't just sit and gather dust. She should be appreciated."
Sensing danger, Elena's mind began to float away. It was a familiar sensation—a trapdoor opening. The texture of the wall, the smell of their breath, the pressure of his grip—it all began to recede. Becoming distant. Muffled. She was leaving.
"Maybe he needs a demonstration." Marco's voice was rough with intent. His fingers tightened on the tie. "Maybe we should show him what his precious wife is really good for."
His face was inches from hers. His breath washed over her—hot, sour.
But she stared through him. Her eyes fixed on a crack in the plaster above his head. She poured herself into that crack. Became it.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Marco's whisper was hot on her face. "To be a good little whore for the men he's too proud to acknowledge."
The words tried to degrade her, but they bounced off the empty space where she used to be.
Marco leaned in. His mouth aimed for her neck. His grip on her wrist tightened. His other hand pulled at the tie—
And stopped.
He pulled back. His leer faltered. He studied her face—the blankness, the vacant stillness, the absence of fear. No tears. No flinch. No resistance.
"The fuck?" He shook her arm. "Hey. Look at me."
Her eyes didn't focus.
Then he slapped her. Across the same cheek Valentina had struck. Her head snapped to the side. A bright red mark rose on her pale skin. But she made no sound. Her head lolled back. Her gaze remained empty.
Disgust twisted Marco's features at being denied a struggle. "She's not even in there." His bravado thinned. "It's like… fucking a corpse."
Silvio's expression became nervous. "Maybe we shouldn't. If she's like this… it's weird."
Marco released her arm as if burned. She slumped against the wall, a puppet with cut strings. He stared at her blankness and scowled. "Pathetic." He kicked the pile of torn silk. "Clean up your mess, mouse."
He turned and stalked off. Silvio scurried after him with a bewildered look.
The silence was that of a vacuum. Of a space where sound itself had been erased.
Elena did not move for a long time. But slowly, sensation seeped back. The cold floor. The throbbing in her cheek. The weight of her body. She slid down the wall and sat on the cold floor, trembling. Mechanically, she reached for the torn silk and folded it with numb fingers. The movements were automatic. Order from chaos. Neatness from violence.
She lifted her head. Her unfocused gaze caught movement—a shape in a recessed doorway.
Anna.
The old maid stood there without pity or shock. Her face, half in shadow, held an expression Elena had never seen there before: a weary sorrow, as if she saw something inevitable.
Their eyes met across the dim space. A ghost recognizing another ghost.
Then Anna turned and melted back into the darkness.
Elena sat for another moment before she stood. Her legs barely held, her feet shuffling her forward. She held the bundled silk to her chest. She did not look left or right. Her internal compass pointed to only one location.
The room. The cage. The wolf's den.
Because the wolf, for all his fury, had never actually hurt her. Not like Marco. Not like Valentina.
She walked through corridors, past doors, up the stairs. To the familiar door, still ajar. She pushed it open.
The bedroom was dark. The bathroom door stood open—the wolf had left.
She did not go to the bed. Or the alcove. She went to the corner where the wall met the wardrobe. The narrowest space, the deepest shadow. She sat down on the floor, back pressed into the joint, and placed the bundled silk beside her. Then drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, rested her forehead on her knees.
And she was gone.
Not asleep. Not crying. Not thinking.
Empty.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 5/2/26