Chapter 5
Ayla
I lost count of how many times I had to clear my throat in an effort to keep from crying.
I’ve seen so many terrible things come through the emergency room at the hospital I used to work at.
Horrific amputations and injuries that would take months to recover from were all a part of the job, expected even with the hospital being right off the interstate.
Car crashes aren’t exactly selective in how they will hurt a person, but watching Pirro cut into this man goes against everything I’ve been taught as a healer.
The only breaks the man has been given is when Pirro steps to the side to snort a line of coke, but he doesn’t even bother to rinse his hands before sticking the rolled-up money in his nose.
His pupils are dilated, the cuts on the man’s skin forcing blood to drip from so many areas on his body I wonder if each of his breaths will be his last. Honestly, his death seems more like a reward than a punishment at this point.
I pray that it ends soon, but the power the cocaine is telling Pirro he has is only going to make it last forever.
I don’t let my head dip despite my own exhaustion.
I feel a certain type of kinship with the man, wishing I could speak and tell him he isn’t alone.
I wish I could beg him to give up, to give into that voice that’s telling him to walk into the light or whatever the hell someone sees when they’re on the brink of death, but it feels selfish, and maybe in part, it is.
If a client comes and wants something Pirro feels I have to offer, I won’t be given time to rest before being expected to perform.
I’m lucky to sleep a handful of hours each day.
I don’t know why I’d expect today to be any different.
I eye the bucket of soapy water, wondering what Pirro’s response would be if I scooped some up and drank it.
Not only because I’m desperate to rinse the taste of that man’s cum from my mouth but also because I’m so fucking thirsty, I’m no longer able to even pull spit into my mouth.
I know how crazy the thought is. It’s not just soap in there but the man’s blood from cleaning his body.
Plus, I wouldn’t put it past Pirro to contaminate it with other stuff as well.
I force down a gag, thinking of washing the man then sucking him off.
I’m sickened by everything I’ve been forced to do, but I can’t let myself focus on it. Doing so only makes me think of Alani and the sacrifices she’d make to save me. I imagine it might be the very same things I’d agree to when they were asked of me to protect her.
If Cortez could guarantee her safety in exchange for my death, I’d agree without hesitation, much the way I think Alani would do for me.
It’s been threatened that if I commit suicide, Pirro would take a trip to Lindell and make Alani take my place. I’d do anything to keep her from even suffering a second of what I’ve faced.
It’s what has me straightening my spine and forcing my eyes to stay open. I’ve learned my lesson about looking away.
Pirro takes the blade to the man’s skin, and I hate that I know exactly what it feels like.
With men, Pirro wants them to act brave until he breaks them.
With women, he wants them to act as if they like the pain.
I hate when he gets a glint in his eyes, meaning he picks me.
I have scars that will last a lifetime on my skin.
I no longer dream of having a family, being blessed to kiss a man before falling asleep.
I’ll no longer have the chance to hold a crying baby to my chest with words of comfort coming from my lips.
I’ll no longer grow old, will no longer be able to watch my sister graduate from college or walk down the aisle.
I’ll no longer be able to give her advice when she faces motherhood herself.
I’ve come to accept those things, but I think fighting my reality versus how I wanted my life to be is the hardest struggle. Who cares about the bruises and scars of right now when it’s giving up everything I’ve dreamed of that’s the real struggle.
I went through the same internal arguments in the months after my parents’ deaths. I couldn’t imagine facing a future without my mom and dad, but I managed. I’ve cried just as much as I did back then when I felt like I could get away with it, when the house grew quiet in the hours just after dawn.
“Fucking pussy,” Pirro spits when he realizes the man has either passed out from the extensive pain or he’s finally died.
I watch him, waiting for his intake of breath, not feeling very relieved when his chest rises.
Pirro drops the scalpel he’s been using, bored now that the man isn’t fighting against him. I hold my breath as he takes a step back.
I’ve witnessed this before, but this time seemed a little more personal.
Pirro talked about betrayal and lies as he cut this man.
He growled obscenities and accused him of trying to manipulate him.
He didn’t go into any detail, and for that I’m glad.
I don’t want to know any more about this man.
I don’t want to feel sorry for him. I don’t want any fucking connection.
It compromises my own health and well-being.
I’ve never been more grateful for the rules around here than I am today. It’s hard enough to witness his life draining out of him. If I knew his life story, who he might be trying to protect, I might fight for him.
With the rule that we don’t speak to each other, it saves me from forming that connection.
The captor’s reasoning is it keeps people from wanting to help, and I’m thankful for it.
I don’t want to help him in the moment, if it means harm will come to my sister down the road.
There’s no one here worth it, but I’m also normally a compassionate person.
It’s rare to meet someone in the medical field who didn’t at least start their careers that way.
Many grow cold as time goes by. Many lose compassion just from witnessing so many terrible things so often, and I can only hope that it begins happening to me.
I caught myself more than once when I wanted to step up and beg Pirro to stop hurting him.
My own wounds itch at seeing some of the same fresh marks on his skin, in particular the ones on my back and thighs. The five hundred and twelve tattooed on the back of his neck makes me wonder, not for the first time, which digits have been tattooed into my own neck.
Pirro waves his arm at the man before stumbling toward the door.
I move toward the tackle box of supplies just as the door slams shut.
I cringe when it takes no longer than a minute for someone else’s screams to reach my ears.
I don’t consider the man lucky that Pirro stopped hurting him because he’s still alive.
It means that the evil man will only wait until he’s capable of staying awake before he starts all over again.
I start by applying antiseptic to the wounds Pirro didn’t re-slice open first, unable to get the thought of that dirty water being on them out of my mind.
I don’t have much at my disposal to prevent infection from setting in, but I can do my best. It only prolongs the inevitable, and I’m struggling with the idea of rubbing dirt into them.
Death is the best thing this man can hope for, but I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know that the camera is still recording.
Trying to save him isn’t worth the threat of my own punishments if I do anything above what Pirro is asking of me.
Next, I disinfect the deepest wounds before stitching them up. He doesn’t so much as twitch this time when the needle pierces his skin. His skin is hot to the touch, making it very clear the infection I was worried about is already working its way through his body.
I tend to every wound, wiping away so much blood, working from the top to the bottom. It isn’t until I press a piece of gauze to the spot Pirro stripped his skin away from his shin that he once again jerks awake.
He cusses at me into the gag but his body still hangs, his energy completely zapped from what he’s already faced to try and get away.
I’d never risk pulling the gag from his mouth or the blindfold from his eyes, but I clamp his calf, only touching part of his body that somehow managed to remain injury free, hoping he understands that I’m here to help rather than hurt.
He settles once again, but I don’t know if he’s calm because of the comfort I offered him or if he passed out once again.
I don’t spare him a second glance after I finish doing what’s been commanded of me before I leave the room. I don’t have the luxury of worrying about anyone but myself and Alani.