The door slams closed, and I fidget with my phone, ready to walk to the bus stop.
A hand slams over my mouth, shocking me into fight-or-flight. I tear out my earphones, kicking and screaming to turn around, but the thick body that’s behind me holds too tight, unwilling to let go.
I feel soft lips brush against the lobe of my ear, warmth slithering over my skin. “If you want to break free, Little Dovey, I would advise you not to scream.” His other hand comes up to the front of my throat, and he clenches. “It gets my dick hard, and you don’t want that.”
I lie on pristine marble flooring, my body jerking with every breath. The room is clean, almost sterile. It’s one large square with cell bars as a door. There’s a diamond chandelier that dangles lavishly from the center of the roof and a single toilet and basin to the back of the room. A ball of fire has sparked inside my chest, its grip refusing to let go. I’m cold. So cold. Goosebumps scatter over my skin in colossal welts, my once tanned skin has now fallen to a sepia white. Grazing my finger over the leftover crumbs from my cookie on the ground, I draw the number twenty-one.
Twenty-one is how long I’ve been here.
The men who visit me usually arrive in fours, but this morning, the man who is seated opposite me is alone. He’s not someone I have seen before now and something tells me there’s a reason why. He’s wearing a black party mask with neon lights attached to it: both eyes are blue crosses. He tilts his head, but doesn’t speak, almost like he’s examining me.
I crawl backward, not wanting to be near him. I can feel him. I felt it when he walked down the corridor. His anger. His antagonism. He picks up the knife that’s beside him, blood dripping off the blade and falling to the once spotless floor. I watch as his finger runs over the red liquid, tainting his skin. Then he suddenly flies to his feet, and I jump, horrified by what might be to come.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Four steps and he’s in front of me. I don’t want to be here. My body shakes, and my head pounds. They keep us fed and hydrated, so I know it’s from fear.
I squeeze my eyes closed as the sound of his zipper slashes through the empty room. The smell of blood is stronger the closer he gets.
I picture myself dancing. Happy. Pointe shoes tied around my ankles, my hands flailing above my head as I begin the steps to execute a perfectly elegant arabesque. Smooth flesh comes to my mouth, and I don’t have to open my eyes to know what it is. I bite down, not wanting to spread my lips, but his hand comes to the back of my hair, and he yanks my head back, my eyes flying open. The man picks up his knife and presses it to my throat. I can feel the blood dripping down my collarbone. Either from me or from whomever else he had just killed.
I continue to refuse, so he presses the blade harder while his cock jerks against my soft lips.
Tears pour down my face as my resilience kicks in. My mouth parts, and his cock slips in. I’ve never been raped before. Never felt forced. Something happens when you’ve been taken advantage of. It’s as though they take some of your humanity and replace it with their odor. His dick slides in and out fast, forcing himself down my throat. When I bite down on it roughly, he leaves it lodged down my airway, cutting off my breathing. Once he’s had enough of me fighting him, he shoves me backward and crawls up my body, his hand cupping my pussy. He shoves through two fingers then three, before tearing off my shirt with his other hand.
With every thrust of his fingers, he takes a part of my soul, and I don’t want it back. He didn’t need to put his dick inside of me to rape me, but I’m still thankful that he didn’t. This was something else. There was a reason to why he exhorted himself into me by using his fingers only. He had a message to send, and unfortunately, I was going to be the deliverer.
Once he leaves, I fall asleep with tears crusted over my cheeks and memories flashing through my head of my father and the Thai food that I never got to eat with him.
Soft sobbing echoes around the room, along with snuffling and shuffling of a body.
“Do you know why they took us?” the voice asks, but I don’t pay it any attention. She is one of many, one of twenty-one, making her twenty-two. She starts crying again, and I have to fight the urge to tell her to be quiet. The tears only enforce their sick games, I am sure. “Do you talk?”