It was just past lunch when I first heard Zela scream; it had probably been an hour or two. In that short amount of time, there was a noticeable shift in Zela's behavior. Before, she was a quiet, reserved demon girl. However, since cleaning her wound and helping her bathe, I'd seen her smile and laugh.
The laugh was short and under her breath, but it was a laugh, nonetheless.
"Alright, I think that's enough," Zela said, announcing that she'd had enough of the bath, stretching both of her arms in the air. The stump on her left arm glinted in the lantern's light.
I'd been tasked with holding up her right leg to avoid the stitches from getting wet.
After her light stretch, she pursed her lips.
"What's up?" I asked, seeing her expression had turned to one of thought.
"How am I going to get out?" she asked. She was right; she couldn't get out by herself. I guessed that I had only one option left: I would have to carry her out. It was another thing I'd done hundreds of times in training to become a doctor.
"I'll just carry you out, if that's okay with you," I said, thinking it was the easiest and quickest solution. However, Zela paused, her face flushed. It seemed the hot water was getting to her. It was best to get her out as soon as possible.
"Is that okay?" I asked again. I understood her hesitance, but I couldn't think of another way. "Unless you have another way to get out, this is the easiest way."
She looked at me cautiously, moving her outstretched arms to cover her upper body. She still didn't trust me; she thought I would do something nefarious.
"Can you trust me, for a moment?" She closed her eye—usually, her crimson eye was open fully, and her other eye was cracked open, letting the pink flesh behind her eyelid be seen.
She opened her eyes and sighed. "I guess there is no other way… But if you even think of doing anything, I'll—"
"I know, you'll kill me. Alright, come on," I completed her sentence and stood, laughing. Her usual threats made a cold sweat form, but a threat from that same girl in a bubble bath held substantially less weight.
I stood over her and knelt down. Reaching my arms into the now murky water, I felt her soft, supple skin on my calloused fingers.
"Ah," Zela made a noise of surprise as I wrapped my hands around her lower back and thighs. Lifting her up, the murky water ran off of her and into the bathtub, revealing her scarred skin. Her usual skin was a nice golden beige, but scars ran deep, turning her skin a mix of beige and streaks of pink and white.
There were ways to rid your body of scars with lotions and essential oils. However, I didn't have any on hand, so I would have to buy some. I'm sure Zela would want to rid herself of these scars.
I set her gently on the toilet seat and reached into my bag, grabbing a towel and a tall chair. I handed her the soft blue towel and set the chair in front of the mirror that hung above the sink. Zela quickly wrapped herself up and sat, looking at me.
"Do you want to sit here?" I asked, looking toward the stool I'd placed in front of the sink. Naturally, humans took pride in their appearance and wanted to look the best they could. I assumed demons were the same.
"Sure," Zela said, nodding. I put out a hand, inviting her to stand. I wanted her to stand for a few reasons.
Firstly, because I know Zela hates being carried around. Secondly, it's important to avoid muscle atrophy, a weakening of muscle tissue in limbs. Even if an individual loses a limb and never walks again, doctors will assign stretches and workouts for the remaining limb. And lastly, her height. In reality, I should be keeping a chart of Zela with all her injuries and procedures she goes through. But in the chaos, it slipped my mind.
Zela grabbed my hand and pulled herself upright. Noticing her shake on uneven footing, I put out my other hand and supported her at her waist. Soon enough, she was standing, though probably with some struggle.
I stand at exactly six feet tall. Right now, Zela was looking up at me slightly. I guessed she was five foot eight inches tall. I noted it for when I would start an official chart of her.
I assisted her as she hopped over to the chair sitting in front of the mirror. She plopped herself down and looked at her reflection, turning her head in all directions. Zela inspected her face, neck, and eyes. She forcefully opened her eyelids to see the contrast of her vibrant crimson eye and empty eye socket. She frowned slightly.
I wanted to reassure her by saying something along the lines of, "You'll be able to see out of both eyes one day." But I didn't want to give false hope.
I reached into my sack and took out a fine-tooth comb. I inspected it, making sure it was clean, and handed it to her. "Here you go. Do you need anything else?" I asked, looking out at the arrangement of items laid out on the sink.
Zela shook her head. "No, I will be okay. Thank you, Dobin." Zela looked at me with upturned eyes and spoke softly—a genuine thank you.
"Of course. Do you need any more help?" I asked.
Zela turned away, avoiding eye contact. "Can you comb my hair? I don't think I can with this," she said, raising the stump on her arm.
I nodded. "Of course I can." Zela handed me back the comb, and I turned my eyes to her head. While in the bath, I had cleaned her hair, restraining myself from touching the small horns that sprouted from her head.
But now, with the bubbles gone from her hair, the horns were on full display. The urge to touch them was eating away at me.
Zela noticed how I was frozen in place, staring at her horns, and said, "Dobin, is there something you want?" I quickly snapped out of the horn-hallucinating trance.
"To be honest, I want to see what your horns feel like." Honesty was the key to any relationship.
Zela smiled and let out another muffled giggle. "Of course you can. It would be hard to comb my hair without touching them." She had a point.
"Alright, here I go." I set the comb down and moved both of my hands as if I were grabbing the sides of a ladder. I slowly wrapped my hands around Zela's horns. One year, my dad shot a deer; I did something similar back then. The horns felt identical—cold, hard, rough.
"Well?" Zela asked.
"Thank you. I really wanted to do that. I don't know why. I'll comb your hair now," I said. Was I embarrassed? It felt abnormally hot. Why was I getting all worked up over such a small thing? I shook my head and focused back on her hair.
Zela giggled one last time before falling into silence as I combed out her hair.
Other than an occasional knot, Zela's hair looked healthy. You wouldn't guess she lived in a slave house, going without a bath for weeks. It amazed me; maybe demons have better hair genetics.
I finished combing out her hair and looked at her reflection in the mirror. "Anything else you need help with?" Zela's eyes met mine for a brief moment before she looked away in thought.
"No, I don't think so," she said. I nodded.
"Alright, then I'll help you get dressed, and then we can eat. Sound good?" At the mention of dressing, Zela's cheeks reddened slightly—a common reaction to an embarrassing question or statement. However, there was no other way.
"Okay," Zela squeaked out. I dug in my sack and pulled out a similar outfit to what I first gave her: a pair of my undergarments, comfortable pants, and a white shirt. I set the three articles of clothing on the sink and waited for Zela to say she was ready.
"How's this going to work?" Zela asked, frowning, clearly not wanting this to happen. I'm sorry, Zela.
"I'm going to help you put on undergarments and pants. If you need help with the shirt, I can help with that too. But I think the pants will be your main issue," I explained. Zela nodded, her face still flushed. "Just tell me when you're ready."
Zela sighed. "Let's just get it over with," she said, removing her towel abruptly. I kept my eyes straight and focused on the task at hand.
Zela sat in the chair as I took my underwear and slid them up her leg and over her stump. With no way to lift herself, I lifted her under her shoulders, and she slid them up the rest of the way, one side at a time. The pants were the same procedure, and she was able to get the shirt on herself.
We were silent the entire time. Zela looked like she wanted to cry. However, the embarrassment eventually passed and we were ready to go.
With her freshly cleaned body and clean clothes, Zela and I made our way back upstairs and had a nice lunch.