Broken Princess

by Skye MacKinnon

  He steps into my field of vision. "How are you feeling?"

  I shrug. "Weird."

  He observes me closely, then nods and smiles. "We should have a chat later, but let's continue the tour. I wouldn't want you to miss out on exploring this glorious place."

  "Don't mock the flat," Leek complains. "It could have been a lot worse."

  "You're not the one having to share a bedroom with Andrew," Quentin jokes. "He snores."

  "I do not," the man in question protests. "Laya can attest to that."

  I smile at his attempt to let me take part in the banter. "You never actually slept."

  "Which means I didn't snore. Point proven. Now, shall we go on? We still have to show you the living room."

  Leek turns us around and wheels me out of the kitchen, but not before grabbing some biscuits from the table and handing me one.

  "Trail food," he whispers, already munching on his own. “And proof that I want to be your friend, too.”

  "Weren't they supposed to be for this afternoon?" Quentin asks with mock anger.

  "Just testing. We wouldn't want to give Mrs M something that doesn't taste good."

  "Who?" Are we getting a visitor? I'm not sure how I feel about that. For now, I like not having to interact with other people; people who aren't part of the Angel's children. Of course, I know that the three men I'm with never actually really were a part of the community, but they feel familiar.

  "Our boss, M, just like in James Bond," Quentin explains. "She wants to meet you. We tried to get her to wait, but she's the one who decides what happens next, so it's better if we comply. But don't worry, she's pretty nice."

  "And once she eats my biscuits, she'll agree to whatever we want," Leek boasts. To be honest, after eating mine, I tend to agree. These biscuits are sin.

  * * *

  The living room is nothing special. Two sofas, a TV, a low table that's full of empty crisp bags and scattered files. The bookcases on the walls are empty, another sign that this is only a temporary place to stay. There's a few board games on the bottom shelf of one of them, tattered and slightly yellowed from the sunlight streaming in through the large window. Leek has taken his hands off the wheelchair handles, so I use the opportunity to wheel myself to the window and take a look outside. A field, endless and green. This could be anywhere, but at least I now know that we're in a very rural place. There's a few white spots in the distance, sheep maybe.

  The men let me be, luckily. As boring as the view is at first sight, it is relaxing at the same time. The sun is shining, surrounded by fluffy white clouds.

  "She needs clothes," Leek announces to the other two. "Think Mrs M can bring some? I wouldn't have a clue what to buy."

  "Good idea. Laya, anything in particular you want?"

  I turn away from the window. What am I supposed to say? I don't want to be relying on them. I don't want to be in their debt, but I do need something to wear.

  "Something simple. Modest."

  Quentin nods and begins to type a message on his phone. A moment later, it beeps.

  "She asks what colours you like?"

  In the village, we all wore white clothes, simple, uniform. We didn't want individuality, and we didn't need clothes to express ourselves. Colours would have only distracted from our devotion to the Angel.

  "White, please, if that's not too much trouble," I reply quietly. Their smiles slip a little and I know that I've reminded them once again that I'm different. That I don't belong in this world where people care about how they look.

  The phone beeps again. "Trousers or skirts?" Quentin asks.

  I'm about to say skirts, but then I remember that I'm living with three men. Skirts are feminine, they might give the wrong expression. I'll feel safer in trousers. I trust them, mostly, but I've been taught to be cautious. Andros told us how men outside the community have become more violent towards women and less inhibited. That the laws were changed to make it easier for men to do what they want. Women in this society are suppressed, that's what he's said. That's why living in the village was so much better, where there were clear rules of how men and women had to behave in the rare occasions they interacted.

  "Trousers."

  Quentin frowns for a moment but then nods and types yet another message. "What's your size?"

  "I have no idea. I used to be a size twelve, but I think I've lost weight since then."

  "You certainly have," Andrew mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. Does he think I'm too thin? Well, after looking at myself in the mirror yesterday, he's probably right.

  "That's fine, she's got pictures to look at. And Laya doesn't want anything formfitting anyway, right?"

  I shake my head.

  "Shoe size?"

  That Mrs M seems to be asking a lot of questions.

  "Six." I don't think that has changed. Not that I'm used to wearing shoes anymore. Right now, I'm wearing socks because someone put them on me, but usually I'm barefoot. When we first started doing that, it was a little painful on the rough ground, but the skin on the soles of my feet hardened quickly until it only hurt when I accidentally stepped on a particularly sharp rock.

  "She says she's going shopping now and will be here in two hours."

  Leek looks at his watch. "It's 10.42 right now. Bet she's going to be here at 12.42 exactly?"

  Andrew laughs. "I'm not going to take that bet. We all know she's going to." He turns to me with a grin. "M is very precise. Unless she wants to surprise people, then she's the opposite."

  "What are we going to do for the next two hours?" Leek asks. "I could make lunch, although that will depend on whether I can figure out how the hob works. Laya, anything you want to do?"

  "Shower," I say immediately. "I'd like to take a shower. Is that allowed today?"

  They all stare at me as if I said something really, really sad.

  22

  Mrs M looks like a stereotypical grandmother. White hair propped up in a bun, warm eyes surrounded by tiny wrinkles, laughing lines on the corners of her lips. She's not the thinnest, but she's not overweight either. Average, I'd say. And just like the men predicted, she's at our front door at 12.42 exactly. I wonder if she stood there for a few minutes and waited for the precise moment to ring the doorbell.

  "Dearie, so good to meet you," she says as soon as Quentin leads her into the kitchen where the rest of us are waiting. "I got you some clothes, want me to help you put some on?"

  Without waiting or even greeting Andrew and Leek, she takes the wheelchair handles and pushes me out of the room, towards the bathroom.

  "Can't have you sit around in pyjamas all day. I'm going to have a word with the boys, mind you, not thinking of this earlier. They're supposed to be clever."

  She huffs and continues chatting away without expecting me to reply. "They're good at their jobs, but sometimes they lack a bit of common sense. I got you some nice shower gel as well, they probably have one smelling all masculine. You don't need shampoo at the moment, but I'll get you some soon, once your hair has grown back a little."

  "I don't want it to grow," I say quietly.

  I expect her to protest, like the men probably would, but she continues in the same chatty tone as before. "That's fine, darling, I'll organise a razor for you. And if you want a wig at some point, just let me know. For now, it's important that you stay inside, but once we have things under control, you might want to go outside without standing out."

  As much as the sunlight calls to me, the thought of going outside scares me. There will be people everywhere. It was hard enough in hospital with all the doctors, nurses, police officers, but there will be a lot more people now. And Mrs M is right, I will stand out like a sore thumb with my gaunt face and my shorn scalp. Maybe they'll think I'm a cancer patient, but even so, they'll notice me.

  "When will you have things under control?" I ask in the hope that she may be more generous with her information than the men.

  "It's too soon to say. This has tu
rned out to be much bigger than we expected; much, much bigger. There's a lot of money involved and where there's money, there is trouble."

  "That's what my husband used to say," I tell her without thinking. "That's why we didn't use money in the village. There wasn't bartering, either. If someone needed something, it was given to them without wanting something in return."

  Mrs M sighs. "Sometimes, I wish society worked that way, but sadly it's more complex than that. I assume you got some things from outside your village though? Clothing? Kitchen supplies?"

  "They were donations," I explain, but she tsks.

  "Dearie, after looking through the community's accounts, I can assure you that they weren't donations. But let's leave that for another time."

  She closes the bathroom door behind us and steps in front of me, holding up two different shirts. "Which one do you prefer?"

  * * *

  When we return to the kitchen, I'm dressed in a white tunic that covers my arms to the wrist, and white linen trousers that are a lot softer against my skin than the fabric I'm used to. She wanted to give me shoes as well, but for now, I'm staying inside the flat, so I told her I didn't need them. So many things are changing around me, and I feel like I'm losing control. Staying barefoot is one tiny thing that I can decide myself.

  Leek has made a delicious casserole and while we eat, Mrs M entertains us with stories from her job in a cafe. Apparently, there's a cafe in the centre of Edinburgh that's secretly an outpost of SOCA, where undercover agents can report their findings and get new instructions. One day a week, M works there, even though that's far below her pay grade.

  "I make the best hot chocolate in town," she grins when she's emptied her plate. "But I need to be careful, the cafe has now appeared on tourist sites on the internet, and I don't want too many people coming there. But yes, my hot chocolate is legendary. One girl actually moaned when she drank some yesterday."

  "You should give me the recipe," Leek suggests cheekily.

  "So that you can open your own cafe and take all my guests? I don't think so, young man."

  I smile when she calls him a young man. I don't know his age, but I don't think he's anything younger than early thirties, same as the other two. I'd say Quentin is the oldest, but maybe that's just because he acts with the most authority.

  "Once you've retired and can't fire me anymore, I'm going to make a joke about your age," Leek grumbles, then winks at me. I love it when he winks.

  "You'll have to wait quite a while for that because I have no intentions of retiring. Now, shall we get to work?"

  Leek mutters something under his breath while he starts clearing up the plates that we've already stacked in a pile. I feel like I should be helping him, but the wheelchair makes that difficult. Suddenly, I'm noticing how tired I am again. I've been out of bed for several hours now, and I'm feeling the effect. I stifle a yawn, but Andrew notices it.

  "How about I bring you back to your room, Laya? I think you could do with a nap."

  "No." I shake my head. "I want to stay."

  "Darling, you look like you're about to fall out of your chair,” Mrs M says cheerily but not without authority. “Go to bed, and if I'm gone by the time you wake up, I give the boys full permission to share anything important with you. Now, off to bed."

  I'm too tired to even protest. The energy I had this morning has disappeared and all that's left is a deep exhaustion. Not just physical, emotional as well. I need a break from all this.

  Andrew helps me back into bed and even brings me a glass of water.

  "Ring the bell if you need anything, alright? We'll be just next door, and when you wake up, we can tell you if there's something you need to know." He turns around at the door one last time. "Sleep well. You're safe here."

  Andros is calling me. He's ordering me to come to him. I walk over broken glass, leaving a trail of blood in my wake. He's somewhere at the other end and I need to get to him.

  "Laya!"

  He continues to call and I begin to run, flying over the broken dreams I'm walking on.

  "Pain is salvation! Come to me, Princess!"

  His voice has taken on that special tone that means that I'll be punished if I don't immediately do as he says. I run faster, even though I know that the skin on my feet is cut into pieces.

  "Faster! They're catching up with you!"

  I look over my shoulder and there are other people running behind me, chasing me. I can't see who they are, but they feel familiar. Maybe I should wait and see if they're a threat.

  "They want to turn you. I can see the attraction you feel for them! Come now before you're torn away from the Angel!"

  The Angel. His light is bright on the horizon, beckoning me closer. Andros is standing beneath it, drenched in golden light. He holds his arms out to me.

  "Come, my wife. Let us be one in front of the Angel."

  I look back one more time, but the three figures aren't coming any closer. I've been too fast for them.

  I reach Andros, panting and bloodied, and collapse in front of him. My legs can no longer carry me. He bends down and takes my face in his hands, cupping my cheeks in the way he always used to. Like I'm his, forever his.

  "You've come back to me, sweet Laya," he whispers and presses small kisses on my forehead. "Now we're ready to be together, forever. Only one last thing to do and then we can meet the Angel."

  Suddenly, he’s wielding an iron tong that's holding a flaming golden crown. The gold is quivering in the heat, threatening to melt and drip onto the ground. He lowers it and I realise what he's about to do.

  "You can't ascend until you're broken, my little bird. I will have to break your wings before they can regrow in the Angel's light."

  I shriek and scramble away from him, but he's too strong. He's got one hand around my neck, ready to snap it if I don't comply. I’m just a lost little bird to him, one he can kill and maim at his heart’s content.

  The golden crown is getting closer to my head, bubbling and burning. It will sear my flesh and merge with me. I will be Andros's Princess forever, bound to him by a shackle visible to all. There will be no freedom even in Paradise.

  A drop of molten gold drips down on my shorn scalp and I scream in agony.

  "Scream for me," Andros whispers and lowers the crown until it almost touches my head. The heat is unbearable, singing the tiny hairs that have escaped the last shave. Then, he opens the tongs and lets the crown fall. It swallows me whole in more pain than I've ever experienced.

  "Now you're mine, my broken little Princess."

  23

  I can't stop screaming. Pain is in my skull, in my neck, everywhere. I wrap my hands around my head, shielding me from the pain, but it only makes it worse. There's no escape. Andros won't stop until I'm truly broken, truly his. All he needs to do now is extinguish the last tiny flicker of doubt, and then I'll be his forever.

  "It's just a nightmare," someone calls, but I know that isn't true.

  It's real, so very real. His grip on me is tight, the bloody crown only the latest sign of his power over me. I'll never be free. He's merged himself with me, fused ourselves together. He's always with me, just like the band around my ankle. I can't remove him without removing too much of myself.

  "Come with me," Andros hisses. "You're mine. They can't give you what you need."

  I pull away from him, trying to escape his grip. The pain is getting worse, but I know that I can't stay. He's not going to let me go once we've ascended. He's broken my wings and he's not going to let them grow again. He's going to keep me caged, no matter whether we're on Earth or in Paradise.

  "Let me go," I whimper, bracing myself against the next wave of pain that he'll throw at me. He's relentless, torturing me just because he can. There's no point to it all. It has nothing to do with ascension, with the Angel. It's all about him, Andros, and his desire to own me.

  I push him away with all my might. "No more," I whisper, ripping the crown off my head.

  "That'
s it! Fight him!"

  Voices from far away, familiar and kind. I cling to the hope they give me, no matter whether they're real or not. Is Andros real? Or the voices? Or nothing at all? Maybe I'm dead already, stuck in between life and Paradise. Maybe I have to prove myself here before I'm allowed to continue. Or is this hell, where Andros gets to torture me for eternity?

  "Don't fight me, sweet little girl. You're mine and you know it. Put on that crown again."

  The Prophet's voice is soft and alluring, soothing me into doing what he wants. I look down at the crown. My hands are full of smeared gold and burn marks, but they hold it tight, not letting it fly back onto my head. It's struggling though, wriggling in my grip. I can't stop it much longer.

  "You're strong, Laya. Remember how strong you are."

  It's one of the three, I know that now. The three shadows who I thought were chasing me, but in fact they were trying to rescue me. Now they're saying that I'm strong. Do I believe them?

  "They're wrong," Andros whispers into my ear. "You're weak, you're broken. Nobody can help you, least of all them. They lied to you, they betrayed you. They took you away from me."

  That was the wrong thing to say. "Yes, they did." I look him straight in the eyes. "And that's all I've wanted. I no longer want to be with you. You're cruel and I don't think the Angel will ever welcome you into his Paradise. That's why you do it. You're bitter and you want to prevent the rest of us from being happy." He's gasping for words, but before he can reply, I throw the burning crown at him and it lands on his head, crushing his skull as he cries in pain.

  "Pain is salvation," I say softly as I'm ripped away from him and into the waiting arms of the people who actually care for me.

  I wake lying on the floor, looking up at three very concerned faces. I lift a hand and touch my forehead. No crown. No blood.

  "He's gone," I whisper hoarsely. "I made him go away. I saw him for what he was. I looked into his soul and saw only darkness."