I, Cassandra

28 | CASSANDRA VALLIS

I leave the bed and go to the window. The view is breathtaking. Snowy, blue-capped mountains bask in the clean light of a crisp winter sunrise. Disorientation assaults me. I know enough to know there hasn't been snow on the planet in decades which means I have no idea where I am. I touch the window. It's cold, just like the pristine landscape. I swallow a surge of panic, forcing myself to find calm. I breathe in and out, desperate to slow my thundering heart, fear caging me. For a wild, panicky moment I wonder if I'm dreaming, deep in cryogenic sleep, shipped off-planet to god knows where.

As the sun slips over the edge of the jagged range, its stately rise soothing me, memories slip, disconnected, past my mind's eye. The Jackpot. The GC soldier raping me at the bar, and again against a rank dumpster, forcing himself, savage, into my anus, tearing me open, making me bleed. The long, painful climb up the stairwell, fuelled by a deep dread for the violence I knew would soon be done to me. And from out of nowhere, a grisly thud, the heat of blood on me, the weight of a dead man dragging me down. A soldier whose face I can't see. Miro. A shuttle. Escape from London. A sedative. The sensation of being cradled in my rescuer's arms, his lips brushing against mine, calling me Blue. The dream of Maddox. A sunrise.

Another muffled curse comes from outside the bedroom. A faint knock, low enough if I were still sleeping it wouldn't wake me.

'Ms Vallis?' a man calls, soft.

'I'm awake,' I answer, keeping my eyes on the sunrise, savouring it. The door opens. Footfalls approach, heavy, yet hesitant, accompanied by a thin, quiet tinkling—a sound I don't recognise. My curiosity gets the better of me. I turn.

'You?' I blurt, surprised. 'I didn't expect to see you again.'

My rescuer's carrying a linen-covered silver tray bearing two golden slices of toast, a dish of scrambled eggs, a bowl of cubed melons and oranges—garnished with the rarest of fruit, blueberries—all of it plated on fine white china edged in gold. To one side, a cup and saucer, a selection of teas, and a covered pot of hot water. Two little pots sit beside the plate, one with a red jam, and the other with—

'Is that real butter?' I cry, moving closer, incredulous, as he sets his burden onto the bed, his big, scarred hands incongruous against the tray's refined elegance.

Miro wakes and lifts her head. She licks her nose, tasting the sudden, mouth-watering array of scents. My rescuer doesn't answer. Instead he reaches down into one of the deep pockets along the side of his trousers and pulls out a little china bowl and a foil packet of cat food. He sets the bowl on the side table, beside a fortune's worth of single malt whiskies, and empties the pouch. The food stinks, but Miro brightens, eager, as he sets it in front of her. I watch, speechless, as he pets my cat with gentle strokes.

In his fatigues, the one who pulled me out of London looks like one of Zee's brutes. He's massive, solid, and ugly as sin. A badly-done tribal art tattoo covers half his face and neck, which is an improvement to the rough, pock-marked, broken-nosed visage he sports on the opposite side.

'It is,' he says, low, with a hint of an eastern European accent. It sounds Russian, but I'm not sure.

'What is?' I ask, unable to stop myself from staring at his hand sliding over Miro's bony spine, gentle, soft. I'm transfixed by how someone as rough-looking as him could be so tender.

'Real butter,' he answers, as Miro sits up and commences to clean her whiskers. 'Better now?' he says to her with a smile. I catch a glimpse of his teeth, broken and jagged. I look back at the tray, thinking how much his behaviour reminds me of Ryan. It makes me uneasy, like something isn't adding up. The sensation of having been held in my rescuer's arms, his lips against mine, whispering the name Ryan christened me with floods through me.

I suppress the feeling, uncomfortable. It was the sedation. I wanted my rescuer to be Ryan, so my drug-induced mind created it. The thought of this man kissing me like Ryan once did turns my stomach. He's the ugliest man I have ever seen, and that's saying something after being around Zee's men. I can't understand how he could be in a perfect place like this. Maybe he has qualities GC values. I eye him, surreptitious, wondering if he is an anomaly like me, a freak of nature. The thought makes me soften a little towards him. If he is, he'll be just as lonely as me. A tug of solidarity pulls at me.

The scent of toast beckons. I clamber over the bed and kneel in front of the tray, noticing for the first time I've been washed and dressed in a soft pair of blue pyjamas, about three sizes too big.

I glance up at my rescuer, catching him watching me under his heavy brow, his look unreadable. A closed book.

He clears his throat and turns his attention back to Miro. 'I washed and dressed you,' he says. He cuts a look at me, then away again. 'I know,' he mutters, acknowledging my dismay, 'but out of the others,' he continues, defensive, 'I was your best option.'

'Before you found me,' I say, low, 'I was raped. Twice.'

His jaw clenches. He gets up and goes to the window. His hands curl into fists and a wall of anger, raw, visceral, washes over me, mixed with something else, dark, heavy, and oppressive.

'He hurt you pretty bad,' he says, quiet, keeping his gaze on the brightening day. 'I gave you a shot of antibiotics, and another one for pain. You needed two stitches around your rectum. I did my best. Take it easy for the next few days. There's some tablets on the tray, they'll stop you from going until you heal.'

My heart tight with gratitude, I nod, even though he's still got his back to me. I neck the little green pills and pick up the fork and start on the eggs. They're seasoned with fragrant herbs, and fluffy as a cloud. They're the most gorgeous thing I have ever eaten. I wonder if he made it for me, the dark horse.