Knowing this, I hurriedly donned my stripper costume, snatched up my purse, and stepped up to him. Eyes still tightly shut, hands still holding the sides of his head, waiting for the waves of jarring pain to pass. In this state, whatever I said to him now would be nothing but distant echoes to him. I didn’t care. I still seethed, “I’m not agirl, ass-shit. You’d do well to remember that.”
Like a cat with its whiskers on fire, searching for a bowl of cool milk to dip its face in, I skipped it out of there before Chad’s equilibrium returned. No way on earth was I going to be anywhere near him when he came to. Because, fuck his promise. With that stunt I just pulled, he’d probably kill me before I got the chance to kill him.
Eleven years ago…
Somewhere in Russia
Click. Thud. Clang.
The girl stiffened, trying not to shiver or cry at the familiar sound of the metal door opening. The ‘click, thud, clang’ never meant for anything good.
Bright light streaming into the darkness of the ten-by-twelve room she’d been imprisoned in for the past twelve months never once represented hope or rescue.
It represented pain and degradation.
She hated the light.
But hated it as much as she wanted, the light came pouring in anyway, because choice was a luxury. And here, now, with no choice and no voice, she had to take what was given.
It wasn’t just The Big Man in Black who knocked her around and brought her bread and water twice a day who came in this time. Another man, who was a little bigger, and a little taller came in with him. Carrying a large, black travel bag.
Fear nibbling at her organs as she eyed the suspicious black bag, the girl abruptly sat up and shifted to the edge of her tough, narrow bed. It hurt her back sometimes, but at least she had a bed now. Twelve months ago, there’d been nothing at all in the room, so she’d slept on the floor in the darkness for five months, no blankets or pillows. Nothing soft or cushy, nothing comforting. Nothing to protect her from anything.
Nothing but the darkness.
The Big Man in Black had gotten a little kinder after a while, and told her that if she started being obedient and stopped rebelling, if she accepted her situation and the fact that help wasn’t coming, then she would receive small rewards for her good behavior.
But the girl had been stubborn. Each time she woke up from a painful knockout, she would scream and shout, pound on the steel doors, curse the guard and spit in his face, fought, until he knocked her out again.
Finally The Big Man in Black stopped bringing her bread and water. For days she’d went on without food, energy drained, which rendered her so weak and lifeless she couldn’t cry out loud, and she couldn’t pound the doors. Everything was silence and darkness, as she was being starved to death. Her life drifted further and further from her body each day. Slowly.
On the fifth day, The Big Man in Black came and found her so pressed into the ground, it was like she was a part of it, her body halfway to death, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. He’d cradled her upper half in his arms and forced hot soup down her throat.
That was the only time she’d ever gotten anything other than bread and water.
When she was revived, she’d promised to behave, if only to get more soup. Or something more than bread and water.
Soup was just a one-time treat, however, to bring her back to life. But The Big Man in Black did keep his word about giving her rewards for good behavior.
First it was the narrow bed, no sheets or pillows. More good behavior got her a fitted sheet and one pillow. Then she got a lamp. Then a blanket. Then a mini radio.
Braving it, she dared to ask for books, even being specific about wanting fantasy and dystopia. Those were her favorite books to read, her escape from the real world. Oftentimes she wish she was just a character from a book, and not a real person. Real life sucked. Like, really sucked.
Her brother’s best friend, the monster who killed her family, loved fantasy novels, too. He was the one who made her love them, because he usually read stories to her which her father forbade. It’d been their little secret.
“We are fantastical, Tweety Byrd,” the family slayer used to say to make her smile. “Rules are not for us. Escape with me. Let’s color our minds and forget what’s real.”
He used to talk like that to her because he said it made the green of her eyes glow. He was like her own personal Peter Pan. Grown, but always so young.
Fantasy reads were a special bond they shared. But they’d had to hide and read, because he’d said if anyone saw them, they would think it strange and stop him from coming there. That he was eight years older than her and shouldn’t be hanging out with someone her age.
But in their world, age did not exist. They were just two beings, two souls, two hearts that bonded.
The Big Man in Black never brought her fantasy books, though. He brought books about crime, and war and killing. Books about guns, books about fighting, books which her father would vehemently disapprove of. Nothing was fantasy, nothing would help her escape.
They would only make an eleven-year-old abnormally knowledgeable in the art of killing.
The two men walked up to her bed and towered over her. The girl knew by now to keep her head down, listen, and never to look them in the eye.
