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I don’t startle at the sight of Pirro standing right outside the door. I nod one last time to the customer before closing the door behind me. My nemesis stands there, his hand out. Of course he was watching on camera, or maybe the guy has been here before and is a notorious tipper.
I drop the cash into his hand, praying that it’s going to be a slow night and he’ll tell me to go back to my room and wait for instruction.
Pirro smiles down at the cash. I know making him happy will ensure Alani’s safety. Even with my body aching from what just happened, it feels like a pretty even trade at the moment.
“I need you to shower and get down to room six,” he instructs, his hand wandering down my arm.
He bites at his lower lip when I whimper as he presses a rough finger into one of my fresh bruises. My first instinct is to jerk away, to make the pain stop, but doing so would only end up costing me more.
“Don’t take too long,” he says, releasing me and walking away.
In order to get to the room I’ve been given, I have to walk down one set of stairs, across the foyer and up another set of stairs that gets me there. I don’t know why I torture myself every damn day, but I lock my eyes on the front door as I walk past it. Every single time, I imagine opening the front door and sprinting away. Maybe it’s nature that has me reliving that fantasy a handful of times a day. I bet the damn thing isn’t even locked. Those of us who are allowed to walk alone in the house would never leave. Physical restraints aren’t what keep me here.
I want to sob as I climb the stairs leading to my room. I can feel my will slipping every single day, and I know that eventually I’ll cave. I’ll beg for death, even knowing what it means for Alani. There’s only so much someone can take before they’re so utterly broken that death is the only thing that will bring peace.
I don’t let my eyes roam as I pass each open room. Every door in this hallway has been removed. It’s a power play for the men who work here. We have no privacy because the door to the bathroom has been removed as well.
Nudity is no longer a concern for me as I walk through the house, which is saying a lot because I was always the one who people side-eyed in the dressing room at work because I’d carry my things into one of the bathroom stalls to change. As a nurse, I’ve seen more parts of people’s anatomies than I ever imagined I would before I started nursing school, but I wanted to keep my own modesty. I was never proud of the pooch in my lower stomach I obtained in high school and fought so long to rid myself of it. It’s gone now. The near-starvation diet the Cortez clan has all of us on took care of that within weeks. I’d give anything to get it back if it meant not going through this shit every day.
I never believed the it could get worse saying, but now I know, no matter how bad it is for me, it’s always worse for others.
My mind drifts back to the man I stitched up last week. I haven’t been sent to take care of any more of his wounds, so I can only conclude that he died from his injuries or infection.
My shower is quick because I’ve experienced the repercussions of taking too long, and after the first client of the night, I know I won’t be able to handle much more violence.
My hair is still damp, but I’m not concerned about fixing it. Room six is one of the live recording rooms, and the men that pay top dollar for those aren’t as picky as you’d think they would be. They won’t care if my hair is wet or dry, up or down. They’ll be staring at the most intimate parts of me.
I test myself as I walk back down the stairs, but I fail, my eyes once again going to the bronze doorknob as I walk past. My skin is covered with gooseflesh as I enter room six. I know it’s due in equal parts to my anxiety as well as the cool temperature of the room.
The camera equipment puts off a lot of heat, so they keep the temps down. What do they fucking care if I’m freezing? If anything, the goosebumps make it look like I’m afraid. It adds to the thrill that the person paying for a scene is seeking.
I pause beside Pirro, waiting for instruction, and I fight looking at the man tied down to the table, as much as I did looking at the front door, and with this I also fail.
