What are those?

Genesis

Three days.

Three long, suffocating days since I was brought to this cold, lifeless mansion. It felt like I’d been dropped into another world, a world too quiet, too clean, too alien. No Monica. No Mark. No Jimmy. No yelling, no beatings, no… anything.

I should have felt relief, but the silence only kept me on edge.

When I first arrived, I thought it would be like my old home. Rules to follow. Voices barking orders. But this house was nothing like that. The people here, like the butler, Richard, brought me food every day. I barely touched it. The plates were piled high with things I didn’t recognize. Meat glistening with strange sauces. Bread that smells sweet. It was too much. Too strange.

I wasn’t allowed to eat like this before, so how could I now?

My stomach twisted in hunger, but I couldn’t bring myself to take more than a few bites. What if they were testing me? What if eating too much would bring punishment?

The bathroom was another thing. It was bigger than my old room back at Monica’s. Bright tiles, polished mirrors, and strange, shiny devices I didn’t understand. The toilet was so white it almost sparkled. I hadn’t touched it. How could I? Monica’s voice still echoed in my mind, sharp and cruel: “Filthy things like you don’t deserve good things.”

So, I stayed away. I hadn’t bathed in three days. I hadn’t changed. The room reeked of sweat and urine, but no one said anything. Their silence felt like confirmation, I wasn’t allowed.

I slept on the floor, wrapped in the bedspread I’d soiled. It was safer that way. Safer than ruining the large, immaculate bed. I kept waiting for someone to come in and scream at me, to hit me for the mess. But no one did. The quiet suffocated me.

I just wanted to know the rules. If someone, anyone, would just tell me what I was supposed to do, I could obey.

As I lay there, curled up on the soiled bedspread, tears slipped down my cheeks. My stomach growled again, but I ignored it. I shut my eyes, willing sleep to come.

Then the door creaked open.

My body tensed.

The light clicked on, flooding the room. I squeezed my eyes shut, tighter, trying to block it out. Maybe if I stayed still, they’d leave.

But the voice that followed froze me in place. Deep. Sharp. Angry.

“What the fuck.”

It was him. My husband.

I didn't dare move. My heart raced, pounding so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs. His voice low and full of disbelief, sent a shiver through me.

I braced myself for what was coming, threats, pain. That was what followed words like that.

I cracked my eyes open, just a little. He was standing in the doorway, his tall, broad figure silhouetted by the bright light. His eyes were scanning the room, wide and sharp, taking in everything. The soiled sheets, the untouched bed, the untouched food, still seating on the tray. The mess that was me curled against the wall.

I wanted to shrink, to disappear into the floor. My chest tightened as shame clawed at me, but I didn't move. moving made it worse.

His footsteps broke the silence as he walked further in, slow and deliberate. I flinched as his shoes creaked against the floor, squeezing my eyes shut again. I could hear his breathing, shallow and uneven.

“What…” His voice broke off, and I heard him exhale sharply, like he was trying to calm himself. “What the hell is going on here?”

The question wasn’t directed at me, but it still felt like a knife to the chest. My mouth opened, a reflex, though I knew no words would come. I couldn’t answer even if I tried.

I heard him move closer, the faint shuffle of fabric as he knelt down. I felt the warmth of his presence next to me.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now, his voice softer. “Look at me.”

I couldn't.

“Genesis,” he said my name, like it was a command. His tone was different from before, less sharp but still firm. I didn't know what he wanted, What he was going to do.

Slowly I turned my head, my face hot with embarrassment, my eyes darting to his shoes instead of his face.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, his voice came again, even quieter, almost like he was talking to himself. “What the hell happened to you?”

That made my stomach twist even more. Was he angry? Of course he was but why was he not hitting me, or was he disgusted? I didn't know how to read his tone.

He raised his hand up, and I flinched again, bracing myself. But there was no blow, no yelling, instead he rubbed his hand over his face and then glanced at the door.

“Richard,” his voice boomed and I jumped at the sound of it.

I scrambled up to my feet. My heart is hammering in fear. What had I done again? Was he calling someone else to join him in punishing me?

Moments later, Richards appeared at the door, his face pale. “Y…yes young master,”

“Get this room cleaned up now,” he said sharply.“And find her some clothes, something comfortable. And food. Fresh food.”

Richard’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, clearly unsure how to respond.

“Now!” Kier barked, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Richard scrambled off, and Kier turned back to me. I quickly looked down, staring at my hands, willing myself to become invisible.

“Come with me,” he said as he stood up from his crouch. Tears slipped down my cheeks. This was it. I braced myself. I could endure it. I had done so for years.

I nodded, keeping my gaze low, and followed him. He led me to the bathroom door, pushed it open, and stepped aside. “Step in,” he instructed.

Without hesitation, I obeyed. Compliance was safer; I had learned that the hard way. I shuffled into the large, gleaming bathroom, my dirty feet leaving faint smudges on the pristine floor.

“Take a shower,” he said firmly.

I hesitated, confused by the command. Was this a trick? But his voice gave no room for argument. Slowly, I began to undress, peeling off the soiled dress and undergarments. I placed them carefully on the counter, avoiding eye contact. My eyes dropped to my feet, waiting for his next instruction.

“When you’re done taking off your clothes—” his voice faltered mid-sentence. I glanced up through my lashes to find him staring at me, his eyes wide before he quickly averted his gaze, looking anywhere but at me.

“When the hell did you undress so fast?” he muttered, his tone more startled than anything else. His reaction stung, and I couldn’t stop the fresh tears that burned down my cheeks. The scars covering my body must have horrified him.

He sighed heavily, his hand brushing over his face. When he looked back at me, his eyes stayed fixed on mine, avoiding the rest of me. “Step into the shower stall,” he said softly.

I nodded and turned, stepping toward the glass enclosure. But then I felt him move closer, his presence radiating behind me.

“What are those on your back?” he asked, his voice low and tense.

I froze, shrinking away from him, retreating into the stall as if he had burned me. His gaze followed, filled with something I couldn’t identify, horror? Pity? Anger?

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. Then, his tone shifted, softer but still firm. “Take your bath. Use whatever you need, the soaps, the lotions. They’re yours.”

I blinked at him, unsure how to respond. Mine? They couldn’t be mine. That had to be a trap.

My eyes darted to the unfamiliar fixtures and buttons. How was I supposed to use this? At Monica's, there had been a bucket and a cold tap, nothing like this.

I hesitated, not wanting to admit my ignorance. Panic bubbled as I randomly pressed one of the buttons, hoping for the best. Instead, a blast of steaming water erupted, hitting me squarely. I flinched and stumbled back with a silent scream, my body jerking out of the stall.

I collided with his chest, trembling uncontrollably. His arms wrapped around me instinctively, steadying me.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice sharp with concern.

The question threw me. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t yelling. His hands stayed gentle as he guided me back toward the stall.