Chapter 4- Of scars and bubbles

A little insight on life in Echo's home

Of scars and bubbles

I pushed the cart up to the step that lead into our wide, single floor home deep in the forest. I put the cart to the side, then started to unload it. I carried three boxes in at a time, carrying them into the large living room with the low table and two mats around it, through the sliding rice-paper door and down the hallway, going past the baths to my room. I set the boxes down and opened my door, sliding it to the right. Mine was the only door in the house that slid to the right.

 

I picked up the first three boxes, walking into my room. Sunlight streamed through my open window, illuminating the large bonsai tree. A medium sized dresser sat in the corner opposite of the tree, in the dark. A stand was on my dresser, a large sword resting in a point-down position. I went to the wall directly opposite of the window, which looked out to the west. I slid open the door, opening it to the right. I set down the three boxes, looking momentarily at the tiny shrine hiding in the back, in a small alcove. Father didn’t know about it.

 

I turned around, looking at my woven mat bed under the window. The room was bare, only having my tree, the dresser full of shirts and jeans- the skirts Father bought me hidden away in the back- and my mattress under my window. And the practice sword on its stand. Perfect.

 

I went out, getting all the boxes quickly. I set them one on the other, organized into two piles; one was kimonos, the other the shirts Maryl had made me. Lastly, I brought in the oil and two daggers. I set them on the table, wondering what Father was doing. My stomach growled and I realized I had skipped breakfast. I went into the seldom used kitchen.

 

Father was not a cook, but I prepared some meals myself. I had been taught how to cook and prepare food at a very young age. I found bread and broke a loaf with my hands, then looked in a jar that was filled with spices. Taking a pinch, I spread it on the bread, followed by a slice of venison, which had to be eaten before it went bad. Eating the small sandwich, I looked in another jar, a black one that Father used to keep jerky in. I grabbed a piece, eating it quickly. I would cook a real meal later.

 

I leaned against the counter that ran the length of the room. I licked my dry lips, and then headed for the cellar, going through the basement doorway in the kitchen. I walked down the creaky wooden steps, until I landed on the cold, packed dirt floor. I strode past barrels full of unknown things, to the back of the square underground room. I opened the swinging door, then headed deeper underground into the cellar.

 

Once down in the cold, wet room, I looked at the racks filled with bottles of wines. Father liked to make his own wines, but had some bottles bought from villages from his journeys. I picked up an extremely dusty one, made from thick, heavy glass. I headed back to the kitchen, carrying the bottle by the neck.

 

I washed the bottle off in the sink, the water being pumped up from our well. The label was faded, and had washed off in places from the water. Taking the bottle with me, I headed to my bath, a small natural hot spring, which the house had been built around.

 

Sliding the heavy wooden door closed, I shed my dirt-crusted shirt and pants before testing the water with my foot and setting the bottle down on the lip of the bath. Finding it to be very warm, I took off the underclothing, and then slipped into the bath, sinking down into the foggy water with just my head and very tops of my shoulders exposed above the surface.

 

I sighed contently. It was my first bath that I could quietly enjoy myself in for the first time in months. Father always had something for me to do. Taking a bar of homemade soap, I started scrubbing my arms, not even wincing at the harshness of the soap on my skin, having grown so use to it. I washed the dirt and dried sweat off my arms, then set the soap aside. I reached over and opened the wine bottle, ripping the cork out.

 

I took a sip of the spirits, and giggled. It had aged perfectly. I drank a mouthful, gulping it down. Then I washed my left side with the harsh soap. I laid back, letting bubbles form on the bath's surface. I ran my fingertips over the heavily scared right side of my torso and stomach.

 

All manor of cuts, stabs, crushed bones tormented the right side of my body. My fingertips ran over the harden flesh of multiple puncture wounds, and many slashes. I knew that every rib on my right side had been broken at least once. I could feel the skin and muscle with my fingertips, but I couldn't feel anything touching my right side. All the nerves had died.

 

My torso and stomach were devasted on my right side. My arm was fine, though. I had a scar on my hip, but that was all. I washed the breast and stomach gently. A small mist of red floated in the water, but I took no heed. It disperesed throughout the water, burned away.

 

I drank more wine from the bottle as the top of the bath began to be covered in bubbles. The heady taste quickly filled me with a warm, joyful feeling. I held a large breath, then sank below the bubbles, staying under and scrubbing my hair for as long as I could.When I cam up for air, the warm feeling was gone. Greedily, I drank the rest of the bottle quickly.

I soaked in the bath until every bubble had gone, not trusting my motor skills after I fell trying to stand.

Author's Note

I did my best to describe the damage done to her, without getting to graphic on the bath scene. Any ideas on how to improve? Reviews are welcomed and apreciated.