Unlocking the door, two women stare back at me from dirty mirrors. Both turn and offer a sneering comment.
“Did you fall down in there?”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if she had?”
They head to me, slowly circling me like I’m their prey.
Swallowing down my nerves, I stand a little taller.
“I have no idea what your problem is with me. Now, if you step out of the way, I’d like to leave.”
“Go through the window. You’re not walking back out there past my guy,” one of the women insists while chewing her gum.
I look at her with confusion, and she points up at the grubby window that is hard to see through.
It looks just like the basement window, and for a minute, I’m back there.
Trapped in the past, I look away from the window, but I no longer see the grime-filled white tiles of this public restroom. I see cold stone walls and my brother holding his bleeding face together.
“Ambrose,” the whisper creeps out.
His eyes stay low, oblivious to me. I step toward him, but clawing hands pull me back, and I’m met with cruel red lips and dark eye makeup.
A bitter laugh fills the air.
Chuckles.
My bladder feels weak as he stands before me.
“Don’t hurt her.” Ambrose tries to talk, but his injuries make it hard to understand him.
The memory warps into something else—a new reality.
Cruel hands pull at my dress, and a chill licks across my breasts.
A hard blast to the side of my head, followed by my loose curls being ripped out in a painful clump and landing on the floor, drags me back to the here and now, where there is no Chuckles. There are only two women, both in red dresses and matching shoes, who kick me in the stomach as I hit the ground.
I wince, crouching over myself and trying to shield sensitive areas from patent-covered toes.
I claw at the floor, the liquid beneath me making me slide as I try to escape. I don’t know if it’s water from the faucet or something else, and I don’t care. I just need to get away.
“Maybe that’s enough.”
“Like fuck, it is! He looked at her! I saw him look at her.”
Another kick topples me onto my back, and I use my feet to scoot myself back. I don’t get far.
Another rip of my only fancy dress cuts through the white noise in my head. The woman, intent on not backing down, keeps the tattered pieces in her hand as she comes closer. She uses the ripped pieces to scrub my face and smudge my makeup, leaving them there for me to collect as they stick to my lip gloss.
Keeping my trembling hands at my side, one still clutching my phone like it’s a lifeline, I don’t dare remove the fabric that blocks half of her from my view.
Stains cover my dress as I look down and away from the women glaring at me. There’s blood belonging to me. There’s urine belonging to someone else. There’s something across my stomach that makes me worry my stoma is leaking.
I need to get out of here. I glance at the door, both women blocking it, the awful music pounding through it, then up to the high window.
On shaking legs, I push myself up, and I realize my whole body is shaking too.
“Don’t look so perfect now, do you? Weak, meek, worthless.” The cruel thing in red teases. “You never were, though. The guys here probably just wanted to test out that fucked up hand. To see if you feel ribbed for their pleasure.”
