But that doesn’t mean anything. Not a single thing.
“They didn’t do anything to me.” My voice breaks.
“I saw the pictures, Emilia.”
God. Pictures. Alessandro took pictures. I had forgotten that.
But I shake my head.
“I need the names of the others. It’ll help to find them faster. Do you know them? Know their names?”
The floor is linoleum. It’s an ugly, dirty green. It must be as old as the house.
“Emilia. Are you listening to me?”
I look up at him, and he’s a little blurry at first, but I swallow back my tears. Swallow what I can around the lump in my throat.
“Do you know I came?” I say.
“What?”
“I came. When they fucked me. I came.”
God, I’m going to be sick. I turn to the sink, dash to it, grip the cold edge, but it’s just a dry heave. I don’t know when I last ate. I stand there and hug my belly and my hair’s falling out of its ponytail and hanging in the sink and I shove it back. Shove it in place. But it won’t stay away.
“Emilia.” He’s pulling me back, turning me to face him, but I don’t want to see him. I don’t want him to see me.
“I came every time. With all of them.”
He finally succeeds in turning me around, makes me look up at him, and I feel tears and snot on my face. It’s gross. But he’s just looking at me like he doesn’t care about that.
“Come here,” he says, pulling a paper towel from the rack that’s hanging on the wall and wetting it before cleaning my face.
“And then, when they were done, or when I thought they were done, they hung me from the ceiling and laughed and got hard all over again while Alessandro opened up my back.” Rage is nudging some of that hopelessness out of the way. But still, that feeling of nausea, of wanting to puke, to get everything out, it makes me clutch my belly, cover my mouth. “And then…then…”
“We don’t have to do this right now.”
“No, you should hear. You should know everything.” I shove away from him, wipe the backs of my hands across my face because it’s wet again. “It’s what you want, right? I mean, pictures can’t tell the whole story. I can, though. I was there for the whole thing. Guest of honor, I guess.”
“Let’s go home.” He reaches for me.
I shake my head, slip away into the living room. “After. After, they did it again. They each had a turn again. I was still strung up. I could stand on tiptoe at first, but then I couldn’t anymore. I couldn’t get a grip. Everything hurt too much.” I look down at the floor, at my pretty shoes so out of place here. Note the ugly brown carpet. I bet it’s rough to the touch. And full of germs. “I had their cum inside me. Their disgusting cum. I can feel it sometimes, you know? Feel them. It makes me sick.”
“That’s enough.”
I shake my head, because it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
I climb up the stairs. They have that same carpet on them. I didn’t notice it earlier. I didn’t notice any of it. The bedrooms up there have been closed up so long they smell.
“Come here, Emilia. We’re leaving.”
“Why don’t you leave me alone?” I go into the bedroom with a mattress on the floor. It’s gross, stained and filthy, but I need to lie down, and I don’t care anymore. There is too much dirt. I can’t do anything about it anymore. “Why don’t you go away.” I try to close the door, but he doesn’t let me.
“I’m not leaving you alone. And certainly not here.”
I stop. A strange laugh comes from my mouth. Like a sound a crazy person would make.
“Emilia, come here. I’m not going to tell you again.”
“They need to open the windows. It’s too dank in here.” I shove at one. It doesn’t give at first, so I shove harder. It goes flying up, and I stumble, catching myself on the sill. The wood is rotting, and a splinter buries itself in the center of my palm.
“Emilia! Get away from the fucking window!”
That laugh is there again. I don’t understand why he’s still here, and I don’t really know why I’m leaning so far out. It’s only two stories. It’s not a bad fall. Not even close. I probably wouldn’t even break a leg.
“Jesus Christ!”
His hand around my arm is like a vice. It hurts when he tugs me back, the wood scratching my hands. I crash into his chest. He catches me, but when I look up at him, he’s nothing but mad. He gives me a hard shake.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I shove at him, shove at his chest. Because I’m mad too.