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Sometime later, long enough that my body gave into sleep again, which I decided to accept meant another day had passed, there was the clomp, the click, slide, click, the stomp of boots on the stairs.
It was the same one, the one who had taken Chris, who had my still-red and angry-looking claw marks down his face.
He paused at the foot of the stairs as my heart started to hammer, as my stomach twisted in something that wasn't hunger for a change.
This could be my time, my mind told me, making a cold wash over my skin. And I was feeling a little disoriented with my hunger, knowing full-well that would slow me down, would make any attempts at fighting likely weak and laughable.
But his eyes simply raked over me with what I could only call a promise before his feet carried him away from me, toward Mary who had lost even the ability to groan a few hours before.
"Come on," he said, hauling her up by her armpits, her body too weak to move on its own. "Let's see how many cocks you can suck for your dose today."
The awful thing was, I knew Mary was - in a way that was more messed up than I could even express - a willing participant. She would go along with whatever they demanded of her if it meant they would stick a needle in her arm, take away the pain in her body.
Sometime while he was gone, Chris finally shifted, pulling her body to curl up on her side, her face away from me.
She said nothing, made no noise, so I had no idea if she was still gone, or if she was back and processing pain and the events that had transpired.
Unsure of my part to play, I stayed silent, hating myself for it, but knowing I would only hate myself more if I somehow made it worse for her.
In this situation, I guess we should all be left to deal with it in whatever way kept us the most sane.
Sometime later, Mary came back down, this time able to carry herself, the drugs making impossible things possible again. Her cheeks were tear-stained, eyes red, and lips swollen, but she willingly walked over to her spot, offered her leg for her shackle, and accepted her imprisonment.
I mean, I guess they had to, we all did in a way.
And maybe she had been here long enough, had life beat her down so much, that fighting felt useless.
I could understand that, at a certain level, knew that human beings could only take so much before they cracked - or broke apart entirely.
But I hoped that wouldn't be my fate. I hoped that no matter what happened to me, I would never lose my fight, my will to get through this, get away from this.
Maybe I would fail.
Maybe the hunger, the pain, the fear would get to me. Maybe I would escape in my brain. Maybe I would take the drugs when they were offered.
You never really knew what you were capable of until a situation was set in front of you.
Sure, I had every intention of using each skill I had to violently protest when someone came for me, but maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I would freeze. Maybe I would - God forbid - beg, give them exactly what they wanted.
My eyes were slow-blinking closed, begging for sleep. When I heard footsteps above us.
Chris had been taken.
Mary had been taken.
I was all there was left.
My stomach pitched, every inch of my skin seeming to prickle simultaneously, every hair going up while a shiver racked my body.
Click.
Slide.
Click.
Fear was a slimy, slithering thing, snaking up my spine, curling around my throat, cutting off my air.
He was coming for me.
I knew it like I knew that whatever followed would be a scar etched permanently on my psyche.
My eyes only seemed capable of taking in legs, jean-clad legs moving toward me across the floor. There was a slit in the thigh, frayed with wear and washing. And I somehow knew - though, really, it was impossible to tell - that this cut hadn't come like that. Distressed, or whatever the term was. This cut was from something. With men like these, maybe a knife.
Oh, God.
A Knife.
No.
I couldn't let my mind race off toward possibilities, there would be endless paths of them; I would never find my way back.
The jean-clad legs slowed before me, bringing my gaze down to the boots. Not the one that came to take Chris and Mary. These were older, rougher, splattered with what looked like paint and grease. And bigger.
A hand came into view as he stooped, dropping a paper plate down on the ground in front of me.
Too shocked to think better of it, my head shot up, finding someone I hadn't seen before, middle-aged, dark-haired, but hollow-eyed as the rest.
