19. Artemis
19 ARTEMIS
Terror - nearly ten years ago
I sit in a dark cell, my back to the wall.
My breast aches and burns where the silver hoop they shoved through my right nipple touches the loose t-shirt.
A spot of blood has formed on the white fabric, just barely visible in the dim overhead light.
A single bulb that buzzes and flickers.
There’s a wide window over my head, but it’s only a few inches tall.
Thick bars ensure detainment.
That and the metal door that remains locked at all times.
I am alone at all times.
Until the guards come anyway.
They shuffle girls into the hall like cattle, prodding at us, directing us into showers.
Where the filth of our cells is scrubbed from our skin, new outfits are presented.
Rough hands grip our chins and paint rouge on our lips and cheeks, breathing fake life into our appearances.
I was fifteen the first time I was raped.
Fifteen and na?ve.
Fifteen and devastated.
Confused. Scared.
Fifteen and innocent—until, suddenly, I wasn’t.
I’ve been here for weeks, if not months.
Pushed onto a stage, one girl after another, the bidding and judgment silent and loud all at once.
It’s all the same, every time I am prodded through the dark curtains.
Every time the lights blind me, and what feels like seconds later I’m swept away to a private room.
To be someone’s plaything.
But this time…
This time, when I’m shuffled into one of the private, fancy rooms, there isn’t just a man waiting for me.
Or even just a man and a woman.
There’s a boy, too.
A boy with sea-glass-green eyes and blond hair combed back, slick and secured with gel.
He can’t be much older than me, and he’s the one who tentatively steps forward.
Who holds out his hand like I am a feral animal.
I haven’t been allowed to be feral.
There’s a constant threat of going downstairs, where there are no rules.
Nothing to protect us from the dark pleasures of men.
“This is the golden girl?” the woman behind him questions.
“She looks frightened.”
“Just the new environment, ma’am,” a man says in a low voice.
“She’s not used to boys her age.”
The woman sniffs.
A single sound that carries a lot of weight.
If I wasn’t hollow, my cheeks would burn.
They back off, though.
Put space between themselves and the boy.
I don’t want this.
It isn’t the first time I’ve thought that.
As soon as I step back, though, hands grab at me.
They stab a needle into my left upper arm, and a hot sensation spreads across the muscle.
And then… worse.
The heat goes straight between my legs, my whole body tingling.
I gasp.
“New cocktail,” the man behind me, another guard, says.
Not to me, though. To the couple.
And the boy.
“Enhances desire.”
I shift.
Squeeze my legs together.
The words register, and then it makes sense.
The boy is eyeing me curiously now.
They all are.
I can’t.
I won’t.
My body is on fire.
Ants crawl across my skin, and white spots flicker.
My throat closes, making it hard to draw in a ragged breath.
It comes in on a wheeze, exhales as a rattle.
It’s then that I realize something is wrong.
I can’t breathe.
The first panic attack of many to come.
That won’t protect you , a small, snide voice in my head whispers.
The white spots take over my vision, and my hearing goes out.
I’m still conscious.
I’m still functioning.
But my brain just… stops .
The urge to be touched, to feel something— anything —overtakes my thoughts.
Something breaks in my mind, because I hold myself on the razor’s edge of giving in.
Even as the boy inches forward and my fist snaps out, catching him in the nose.
Even when my gaze stays cutting, but my body has another motive.
The first time is the worst, they said.
The pain between my legs, the blood.
But this, arguably, surpasses that.
Because the ability to separate pain and pleasure— there’s never been pleasure before —crumbles, leaving me only wanting touch.
Wanting something I cannot voice, which the boy slowly finds.
And that’s when I lose the last of my real innocence.