Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
“Dog,” she mutters in a heavy accent. “Enjoy your evening.”
She sashays from the room and I’m left gasping for air, horrified as I realize that I swallowed the pill whole in my coughing fit. Seven. It was only supposed to be seven days. Now it’s eight.
Tears blur my vision, and I collapse onto the fluid stained mattress in a heap. My eyes land on the familiar lines etched into the wall by my nail, and I retrace the line from this morning with my finger. Repeating the same word over and over in my head.
Seven. Seven. Seven.
At some point, the music upstairs begins to vibrate through the ceiling. I know it won’t be long now. Drinks first. They’ll all be drunk when they come down here. Sometimes that’s better. Other times, it’s worse.
The door opens. I don’t look. But I hear Arman’s voice. And feel the eyes of his guests as they inspect me. This is Arman’s version of a dinner party, his slaves offered up as dessert. They talk amongst themselves, deciding who gets to go first. Sometimes they share. Sometimes there are so many on me at once I can’t breathe. And I like that sensation. The air slipping from my lungs. I want them to empty completely and steal everything away. But it never happens.
Because Arman would kill them if they killed me.
The door closes behind me, and I’m left with only one man. I can tell by his breathing. One breath, one man. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. I rarely see their faces anymore. I rarely see anything, other than the lines on the wall and the numbers in my head. Seven. Seven. Seven.
A zipper comes down. And then the sound of foil tearing. Arman makes them wear a condom when they take me. And they don’t get to hit me either. I wish they would. I wish they’d hit me so hard I could fade into the blackness. But that special privilege is reserved for Arman only. And he’ll never let me go.
He’s inside of me now. This faceless man. And everything is one dimensional. The pill has entered my bloodstream and I feel nothing. I only hear him. Grunting and cursing.
I count the lines on the wall. And the lyrics to Angel of the Morning by Skeeter Davis play through my mind like an old record. My mother’s voice. I sing along with her. And see their faces. Three empty, vacant faces of my brother and sisters. Lying on the bathroom floor.
Water in my lungs. Air slipping away. Clawing, thrashing. And the soothing song my mother sings while she holds me under.
My eyes flicker open and shut, everything distorted and sharp all at once. Seven lines. Seven days. Angels in the morning. Mother’s hand on my cheek. Gasping for breath as I cough up water and see the halo of her hair surrounding her in the bathtub.
They are all gone. All but me.
Four angels. Seven days.
A grunt. The man behind me finishes. I collapse. Another takes his place soon after.
Flickers of my foster dad swarm my vision. This man smells like him. Like tobacco and stale sweat. The song plays through my mind again and I sing along, trying to block it out. I need another pill. I need the whole bottle.
“So very sweet.”
It isn’t this man’s voice. It’s my foster dad. Number one. He was the first. He won’t be the last.
I count the lines and time holds me captive. I don’t know time anymore. It’s distorted. Days, months, years, minutes. They are equal to me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I never know how long it goes on for.
The only thing I know for certain, is that at some point, the sweaty pile of human garbage behind me changes. This one tries to get rough with me because he can’t get his whiskey dick to cooperate. I don’t make it any easier on him, and after throwing me against the wall, he leaves the room, unsatisfied.
The next one murmurs in my ear as he fucks me. He is gentle, fucking me like a lover would. Halfway through he reaches down and touches me, trying to get me off. It makes me want to puke and it’s completely pointless. I feel nothing. Nothing but the void.
He leaves the room and I lie in a puddle of sweat and semen, wondering where the next man is. There’s always a next one and this one is taking forever. I want it to be over so Karolina will give me another pill. The door opens again, and I wait.
But he doesn’t approach me. He watches me. I feel his eyes on me and I don’t know why. Why is he dragging this out? A prickling sensation crawls along my spine and time suspends in the long stretch of silence. There is an unfamiliar urge inside of me to cover myself. To hide my body in his presence. I don’t like his eyes on me. I don’t like anyone’s eyes on me.