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A fist slams hard into my cheek and my neck whips back from the force. I scream and it sounds desperate to my own ears. Pain engulfs the whole left side of my face, making it pulse with a heartbeat of its own.
Then Henry’s horrid voice ripples through the dark. “Get the shirt off!” The growl comes in raspy breaths.
I try to crawl away but they are so much faster than me. Steven moves behind me and bile burns up my throat. I wish I could vomit all over them. Maybe then they’ll stop.
But I don’t vomit and my body convulses the second Steven takes hold of me.
I can’t just let them beat me!
Shit, what if they rape me?
Oh, God! I won’t survive it. Just the thought of one of these fuckers bringing his dick near me, is enough to make me turn into a wild beast.
I try to swing my elbow into Steven. The movement throws me off balance and I fall to the side, swinging at nothing but the stuffy air.
Steven grabs hold of my shirt and then he yanks it up against my neck. For a blinding moment it tightens horribly around my neck, cutting off my air supply. He yanks again and the force snaps my head back. The material bites at my skin and then it’s gone. Clammy air sticks to my torso and I feel horribly exposed.
“No! Fuck you! No!” I scream until my throat burns.
“Grab her arms,” Henry growls. I see the coal of the cigarette burn red and it lights up Henry’s face. Fuck, he looks evil – like the devil himself.
“Let me go!” I shriek. I start to thrash and kick, trying to worm myself out of this impossible situation.
Henry places a knee over my thighs and his left hand comes down hard over my breasts. He forces me back to the floor and then he kills the cigarette against my side. The burn is intense but nothing compared to the fear of not knowing what they are going to do next.
He flicks the cigarette away and then his fist comes at me. The blow makes my eyes bulge with pain and the world starts to spin. A coppery taste explodes in my mouth, making my throat burn with bile.
The next blow feels like he’s trying to rip a hole through my face. The third punch makes the bright light fade, and pain takes over until it feels like even my teeth are aching.
I give up fighting and my body goes slack. Blood floods my mouth, dribbling out the side and down my aching jaw. The last memory I have is a sharp pain in my chest as his foot connects with my ribs.
The dark is killing me slowly. The blinding light scares me even more. I know it’s been four days. It doesn’t sound like much, but they make a recording once a day for Uncle Tom. I don’t think Uncle Tom is going to help me this time. I haven’t spoken to him in years. Hell, I don’t even know if he’s alive.
Every day, Mr. Attridge adds five minutes to the beating. Yesterday, the twenty-five minutes felt like twenty-five years. I thought it would never end.
I’m dreading today! Every sound makes me jump with fear.
Every day, they remove an item of clothing. On day two, it was my sneakers, day three my socks, day four my jeans. They keep taking my clothes away, leaving me with less and less of myself.
I shiver constantly and I don’t know if it’s from the cold or fear. I only have two items of clothing left.
Day one I was still in shock. I didn’t eat when the old man brought food. Day two I forced myself to move. I pushed through the pain after they were done kicking and hitting me, and I ate. It was a struggle to keep it down.
Day three was worse, and yesterday I couldn’t keep the food in at all. I think I have a broken rib or two. My right hip hurts the most, as if someone is constantly shoving a fist into my side.
The tiny space reeks of vomit and blood. It smells like death.
The old man never looks at me. He just puts down the food and water and then he leaves in a hurry. I was playing with the idea of trying to overpower him, but I can’t even stand on my own two feet for long, never mind fight a man.
I hear the chain rattle outside and I press harder into the corner, so hard my body screams with pain. I know it doesn’t help, but it’s instinct. A low growl builds deep in my throat and I sound like an animal, nothing more than a beaten dog.
When Steven comes in alone, I frown. He hasn’t taken part in any of the actual beatings. He only holds me down.
I watch him set up the camera on a tripod and then he presses record and the blinding light falls on me.
“So now you’re going to beat me? You finally grew a pair of balls, asshole?” I snap at him, angry that I’ve let the monster touch me.
“No, Henry does the beating,” he says calmly. Way too calm for my liking.
