Page 55 of Hush, Little Baby

Anything.

But then Nikolaus would stroke his fingers through my hair and tell me I was doing “beautifully, little one,” and the shouting in my head would get muffled under cotton again.

By the time Constantine brought out the clothes they’d taken from my apartment, I was too worn out to be properly embarrassed by the fact that strangers had gone through my closet. He stood near the sofa with a small stack folded over one arm, looking at it with the solemn disgust of a rich person.

“These are the best of the worst,” he had said.

Nikolaus gave him a flat look. “Constantine.”

“What? I’m not saying it to be cruel. I’m saying it because it’s accurate, and I want it to be known that I had little else to choose from.”

I had hidden my face in my blankie, because the thing about having a closet full of clothes is that people assume there must be something good in it, but most of mine were old and stretched out and purchased during different eras of illness, different body sizes, different levels of pretending I was fine. Clothes that were bought because they were cheap. Clothes that were kept because replacing them cost money. Clothes that didn’t fit right, but fit enough if I didn’t look in the mirror too long, which I never did.

Nikolaus hadn’t let me disappear completely into the blanket.

He’d touched the back of my head and said, “It’s all right, baby. We’ll fix that too.”

“We’ll fix that too,” like he’d already made a whole list of things in my life he plans on changing.

I should have said something, but I didn’t. Instead, I stayed quiet and let him dress me.

That part is fuzzy in my head now, and I’m glad, because I know if I think about it too clearly, my whole body will combust with shame. I remember standing in front of him with my blankie pressed to my mouth while he helped me into soft black joggers that had only one tiny hole near the pocket and a loose gray T-shirt I liked because it was about two sizes too big. My hoodie went on over everything. Then socks, then a pair of white sneakers I usually avoided wearing because I was too nervous about getting them dirty.

Nikolaus tied the laces himself.

He knelt in front of me, huge hands working with absurd care, and I stood there staring down at the top of his dark head, thinking that I should be humiliated, even if I wasn’t.

And when he looked up and told me, “There. All ready,” my heart gave a small, stupid flutter, like being ready because someone else had made me ready was a nice thing instead of a terrifying one.

After that, time moved strangely.

Constantine talked on the phone while Nikolaus packed things into bags.

Room service trays vanished.

The cartoon stayed on until the last possible second.

Then Nikolaus told me it was time to go.

I remember looking toward the door.

The same door I had opened earlier. The same door where the guards had been waiting. The same door that had turned from a possible rescue into rough, grabbing hands, scary guns, and having my body exposed.

Nikolaus noticed my discomfort and lifted me up in an embrace I was oddly getting used to.

That’s how I left the suite.

Not on my feet. Not with my head up. Not bravely.

Nikolaus carried me against his chest while Constantine went ahead with the bags, and I hid my face in Nikolaus’s neck because the thought of seeing reminders from earlier made me feel sick.

I even barely remember the elevator or the lobby, except for the smell of polished stone and flowers and coffee.

No one stopped us.

No one saved me.

Or maybe, horribly, they saw me tucked in Nikolaus’s arms, freshly bathed, one hand gripping his shirt, blankie trapped between my chest and his, and thought I already looked saved.