SAVE POINT 58

Loading The Bathhouse Level...100%

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Rosabella

'Take it.'

Sparo had said I was supposed to 'take it'.

The attention.

The respect.

The...reward for what I'd done to save The Game. The problem was that, even with all his prodding, I was having a hard time of it.

I'd dismissed the maids—I know. I was supposed to let them guide and help me, but after all the formalized "Certainly"s, "Let me get that for you"s and "If I may"s, I was about to gag on my own spit. They'd been the same age as me; they could have at least talked like it.

I'd requested a bathing suit—that was the one thing I'd asked for.

Because this was supposed to be a bathhouse but...

Well, it looks more like a pool, and the water is crystal clear. If someone walks in on me bathing, I'll turn cherry and sink to the bottom, tile floor like a glad, lead weight. So, I'd asked for a bikini—something the maids had been all too glad to fetch (in fact, they—on a whole—were way too glad to do anything for me). And they'd come back like good, obedient, exuberant golden retrievers with the black, string bikini, a tower full of fresh towels, a hairbrush and a bar of lavender soap.

That's when I'd told them to go.

Like hell was I going to strip down in front of strangers!

But, now, they're gone—and I kind of regret my decision. Because evidence of their absence is defeating in this silent room. And I'm left again with my tangles of thoughts as the only visitor.

'Take it.'

I remind myself. This place is safe—I'm safe to enjoy this. What's wrong with me that I'm having such a hard time of it???!

I sigh, and the noise echoes back at me.

If I scream, will it do the same?

If I sob?

God, I want to just let loose and cry. My body hurts so badly, and my thoughts won't give me any rest.

Goran.

All I've been seeing is his face and the image of Joy's Darken scar creeping up the back of my neck. But Goran's dead. I saw Helladore eat him. And there's no rash on my body. I tug my shirt off, running my fingers haltingly over the bare skin of my neck and shoulders to make sure.

It's smooth.

Smooth skin.

And I sigh again.

And it echoes back at me.

...Again.

The bathhouse isn't a 'bath' or a 'house' at all. It's connected from the same hall as the bedroom I'd been sleeping in and looks more like a hotel pool...or how a pool would look if stone temples had them. A video game! Yes, that's what it reminds me of! This has the original Tomb Raider written all over it!

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Stone arches span overhead in tan uniformity, and steam curls up from varying-sized pools, reflecting the golden glow of sconce lights and the sunlight coming in small windows off its cerulean waves. The concrete rims of the tubs are porous and strangely warm under my feet. I wiggle my toes there before deciding to wiggle out of the rest of my pajamas.

I undress and redress in the bikini like I'm being watched. I still haven't completely dismissed the paranoia as I take my first steps towards the smallest pool in the back corner.

It has jets like a hot tub, and I'd do just about anything to sit, my body jarring up and down and my teeth all but clacking together to the rhythm of a rumbling spout on my back, if it'd corral these thoughts for just a few, precious minutes.

And, so, I slip my feet into the water, hovering on the shallow first step.

And it's lusciously warm over my toes, sending delighted goosebumps up my legs. It's not a hard decision to take two, quick, more steps downward. And the warm water rises like a liquid blanket to my middle.

But it's not enough.

I need more.

I need to be all the way in the heat—in the comfort.

Smothered. Completely. So that I can forget that I ever have to come out.

'Take it.'

And I finally can. I, finally, let myself as I sink down and the scalding, comforting water laps over my bare shoulders. Oh my God.

I let my breath out—or, maybe, it's just finally able to come out of its own accord.

I've released it.

Just like I've suddenly released anything and everything I've been holding onto in this moment. Oh God, why was I holding on to all that shit in the first place? Because there's just bliss right now—just unadulterated, pure bliss.

And I can finally sit in it.

Just me.

Allowing myself to feel this. This might just be the best day of my life.

If you'd have told me just a short while ago that I'd be living in an alternate, video-game feeling world, I would have spit out my Cheerios. If you told me I'd be washing my hair in a glorified hot tub and having a nearly orgasmic reaction to this kind of lavishness, I'd have told you to follow that phrase where you walk off a short pier...

And now?

Now, I don't care. Now, I fucking don't care! About reality. About where I'm supposed to be or who I'm supposed to be and it's—

It's freeing.

I tilt my chin up, burrowing my body deeper in the lapping waves and balancing on the edge of the rock seat shimmering below the water in wavy lines. And a laugh bubbles out of me.

A thin.

Tittering.

Unexpected.

Laugh.

Of joy.

There are soap dispensers built into the floor, nearby the lip of each pool, if you can believe it—modern, gold, pump faucets. I push down on the one with a plaque reading 'shampoo' with way too much relish as the gel-like hair product slithers into an 's' shape on my palm.

And I lather my hair. I take my time, digging my nails into my scalp and smelling the fragrant perfume of some type of flower scent waft into my nose. And I use the lavender soap too. I run the bar up and down my arms, coating them milky white, like each pass clears some atrocity of the past.

Some pain.

Some stabbing wound.

Some death.

And I sink into the water, watching the suds spiral out from my body like the lather of the ocean. And I smile—trying to remember the last time I smiled.

I don't want to be king, but it's good to be king.

There's baths and bedrooms.

There's herbs keeping me alive and no zombies or hostile dragons—no armies of death. In fact, in the shelter of this place, all those things seem like nothing more than a fable—a story you'd tell children.

I wrap myself in the most gloriously soft towel.

And I brush my hair out, long, down my back.

And I've almost forgotten about the bodyguard and the maids and the pomp and circumstance until the door in front of me slides open and the two maids poke their headbanded heads through.

"Feeling better, miss?" one asks, her eyes incredibly genuine.

And I nod, actually smiling back, "Yes, thank you."

"Good," the second one interrupts, "Because we were sent to dress you for the Welcome Back event."

And that makes my heart stumble a little. "The Welcome Back what?"

"It's to celebrate the return of a Game Maker!" the maid on the right gushes, "There's appetizers and conversation. You'll be wearing this! Isn't it lovely?!"

She holds up a rigid-looking, black-and-white gown, all tulle.

"Oh, and you'll make a welcome speech, of course, can't forget that!" The other adds.

That's when my stomach plummets.

Someone had forgotten that.

Someone had fucking forgotten that—

I bend over, clutching at my stomach, spitting—

Black blood all over the white portion of the dress. ...And I think I can only blame half of it on the sickness...