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vase housed billowing white flowers, triggering a memory of Zoltan and their bittersweet end. No windows graced the space, but a small door led to what she assumed was a washroom. The main door boasted a counter that thrust a good foot into the room. A square crack ran along the top of the counter, and Papria realized the thing would open so something could be placed on the counter.
    With shaking steps, she made her way into the washroom and locked the door, glad for the small favor. At least she was in a room that allowed for some privacy. She stripped down, her fingers trailing along her ribs, searching for any echo of the ache she’d felt. Her wrist, too, seemed perfectly intact.
    Her lily-white skin showed no traces of dirt, mud or blood. No trace of the vile act. Why then, did she feel so dirty? Her hands shook as she covered herself. There was shame in her nudity for the first time. Even her touch felt wrong. She stepped between the glass blocks encasing the shower. Fear, a feeling she couldn’t place, and humiliation surrounded her.
    The water shot out, hot, startling her. After a moment, she sat on the tiles, her back to the wall. She pulled her legs to her chest, hot water cascading over flesh suffering phantom aches. Wrapping wiry arms around athletic legs, she placed her chin on her knees.
    Drops of water mingled with tears on her cheeks, and she just sat, her chest aching, refusing to let her draw a deep breath. Fr ost-white locks of hair soaked through and clung to her skin. The sting of hot water wasn’t enough, but she lacked the will to heat it further.
    The sense of loss crept up, threatening to consume her, and she let the pain flow. A wise person had once told her that pain couldn’t heal until it was let free. Her eyes roamed over the waved glass tiles, the confined space. The chill of the blocks to her back, a shocking contrast to the heat of her water, somehow comforted her.
    She pressed her legs tighter to her chest, the muscles tight under her arms. Anger snapped at her, and she wondered if rage was normal. The need to hurt the people responsible for her torment welled up inside.
    Deciding it wasn’t productive to wonder what was normal, she focused on the words Farali whispered. Why had the cold woman suddenly whispered something that sounded almost sweet? She wouldn’t be okay, there was no way the council would ever let her out of this box. They couldn’t risk it and if a rebellion was to rise, she’d be publicly euthanized, she was sure. Nothing dissuaded protesters like the loss of the one who’d triggered the event.
    The questions circled, and wi ld thoughts answered them. She refused to let the speculations hold any weight but clung to them. They were a better focus than the fuzzy edges of the world, the crackle of fire, the acrid smoke that still stung in her nose with every passing second the memory pressed in. She wouldn’t relive the moment. The act wouldn’t own her.
    Numb, she got to her feet and stepped out of the shower. The water shut down, and she shivered, wrapping a towel around herself.
    Taking another, she patted her skin dry, avoiding the mirror that glistened with billions of tiny water drops. The top half of the room billowed with steam, the bottom, shockingly clear, chilled her damp skin.
    Throwing her suit back on, she wound a towel around her damp locks and padded out to the main room, wincing as the end of her trial appeared on one of the walls. Refusing to look at the screen, she focused on the clock as the pop, pop of the pistol echoed through her little enclosure.
    Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to escape the memories flooding back, but the screen’s images filled her mind. Needing to see anything other than the freeze frame of Kred’s body pinning her own, she slid her eyes back and forth behind closed lids.
    They’d captured and showed everything in gruesome detail, including the time she’d finished. 5pm. She’d only been in the trial for three earth