You wouldn't think that the worst of the butterflies would happen while I'm just standing still, but without fail, those are always the strongest. They're not borne of suspense - I already know exactly what I've got coming to me in the next hour or two - but instead, they're pure anticipation. Adrenaline. I can feel them fluttering through my veins, making every cell in my body hum. And with my nose tucked up against the corner, where two cream-colored walls meet, I have nothing else to focus on.
I wait, just as I have for the last fifteen minutes. The world is quiet and white and still, but inside of me, an ocean crashes its tide against my lungs. This is the worst part - every single time.
When I hear the bedroom door open, it's relief and terror all at once. Finally, the anticipation stops, and the real thing begins.
"Come here," he orders. His voice is measured - not mad, but almost businesslike, and its low velvet pitch rings in my ears. Turning around, I obey and walk to where he sits on the bed. Moving makes the air drift over my bare skin, a cool breeze all the way down. I know I'll be warm again soon.
Standing tall, hands folded behind my back, I let him stare at me.
"Was that enough time for you to think?" he asks. I know that by "think," he means "contemplate my fate."
"Yes, Sir." My response is nearly scripted, but I still mean it.
"Are you ready for your bath?" he continues. I shiver.
"Yes, Sir."
He walks me down the hall to the bathroom with his hand on my shoulder, making sure I don't give in to my urge to turn and run the other way. I know better than that, though - I don't need to make things any worse tonight. I know I earned this, and that it isn't supposed to be for fun.
The lights are low, just the way I like them, and the air is humid and warm. The tub is filled up and topped with bubbles, and I can see ghostly steam drifting up from the heat. This is always hard, too - trying to find the nerve for the next step.
