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Terror ratchets my heart rate as I scan the room, hating everything about it. Yellow lights illuminate a brick-constructed building. I’m chained to a bed. There’s a table with bottles of water and whisky that’s too far away for me to reach. I think about smashing the glass bottle over Pig’s head. Of escaping. But then I remember the men with guns, and although I’ve wished to be dead many times already, I also want to live. To survive. To fight on.
Footsteps sound, drawing closer. Trembling, I drop my head and close my eyes. I will strength into my body, taking deep breaths.
The lock is turned. The door whines open. Dutch is exchanged, then I hear, “Now fuck off. I don’t want you two listening in, touching yourselves; you can buy your own whores.”
The door closes. The lock turns. I swallow down the whimper and try and hold it together.
But nothing happens.
The silence feels cruel. I’m torn between wanting to look at what Hell-man’s doing, or pretending I’m still drugged to the eyeballs.
Footsteps, slow and steady move around the perimeter.
He’s fucking with me. Drawing close and then away again, baiting me. What a sick fuck. And his eyes—I feel them on me.
Suffering from a Fucktard’s cruel amusement is all too common. I hate their smug smiles and tormenting words. To some, I’m a game, a plaything, but to others, I’m just a body to find a brutal release in leaving me traumatised.
The man who’s prowled all corners of the room pours himself a drink. A few seconds later, my cuff is freed from my wrist. I’m so surprised by the noise of the loosening chain that I flinch.
Hyperaware of everything, I sense him move in front of me. I feel his touch, ordering my lungs to slow the fuck down as he peels back an eyelid. I do my best to look comatose and then I hear a soft, “Fuck.”
It sounds so bleak. So normal and . . .human.
It’s confusing.
I don’t trust my thoughts.
His voice is different again when he talks aboutgetting down to business. It’s more sinister. Deeper. Petrified, I remain where I am, bracing for the moment he drags me to the bed. The mattress creaks and pops. The metal frame rattles. I hear him mimic sex and I crack open my eyes to understand what I’m hearing because none of this makes sense.
There are no other girls in the room. And he’s fully dressed. Through slitted eyes, I watch him fake an orgasm and spit into a condom he pulls from a pocket.
What the fuck is going on?
I squash any false hope that he’s not going to touch me. He’s messing with me. What other reason is there to pretend?
Minutes pass, my mouth as dry as the desert. My shaking is no longer from abject fear but from the cold.
When the man unbuckles his belt and asks for my mouth, I wonder if he caught me looking and has decided to use me after all. But when he feigns another orgasm, when he starts to weep, I watch open-eyed and try to unpick everything my brain is telling me.
Perhaps sensing me, his eyes dart to mine. I’m about to look away, to hide, but the deep despair on his face intrigues me so I keep looking.
“Hello?” he offers quietly.
The kindness in his voice troubles me. I look away.
“Are you thirsty? There’s water.”
He passes me a plastic bottle of water. “Sit, please. I’ll stand, or take the floor.”
I shrink into the wall behind me, the chain by my foot rattling.
“I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I’m not here to hurt you. I’m looking for someone; I thought it might be you.”
Thirsty, I drink deeply. I’m hoping the water will bring clarity because I’m already believing every word he’s telling me. His statement, hisintentionsmight be unlikely, but they’re plausible given his behaviour so far.
No, Ava.Don’t mistake this glimmer of humanity for something else.He might look and act differently from all the men who came before, but the outcome will be the same.
“My name is, um, Yves. What’s yours?”
