Chapter 8 Violet
VIOLET
Istare at the bread in my hands, unable to take a bite.
Matt tore his share in half this morning and pushed it through the chain-link with fingers still swollen from yesterday.
I told him to keep it, that I wasn't hungry, but he just gave me the look.
Busted face trying for disappointed parent, and said, "Eat it or I'll be offended.
You don't want to see me offended. It's very underwhelming. "
That was hours ago. Six, maybe seven. It's hard to tell now that they've boarded up the plinth that was sticking out, and I can no longer see the sliver of the outside world.
The bread stays in my palm because every time I lift it, my ribs protest and my stomach curls inward, the nausea winning again.
It's been winning for days, this rolling sickness that has nothing to do with stale bread and everything to do with the deep bruising across my abdomen and a body that has decided, somewhere below conscious thought, to stop cooperating.
I sit with my back against the partition wall, holding the bread, and count.
It's the only thing I have left. I count footsteps from the metal door to my cell, minutes between guard rotations, ceiling tiles in this section of the warehouse.
I'd talk to Matt, but he had been dragged up the staircase and through the fucking rape room door shortly after he shared his bread with me.
They should have given him the day off. Especially after yesterday, after all the blood and bruises they gave him, just for trying to defend a girl who looked way too young for this place.
They should have let him rest. But this place doesn't run on shoulds, it runs on whatever keeps the men behind the metal door feeling powerful, and leaving Matt alone wouldn't serve that.
There's something off with the guards. The stocky one who broke Matt's nose walks the perimeter now with his left arm in a sling and his right hand tucked close to his side.
It takes me a minute to see why. His index finger is gone, ending in a wad of dirty gauze just past the first knuckle.
I don't know what happened. I don't dare to ask.
But he's not walking the same way he was before, holding himself differently, and he hasn't looked toward my cell once this rotation.
His usual partner, the tall one with the lazy eye, is gone. Replaced by a younger guy with a shaved head, and a loose-limbed stride that reminds me of the boys Danny used to run with in Southie. The kind of walk that says I own this stretch of sidewalk without ever saying it out loud.
The new guard hasn't looked at me yet. Give it time.
Lifting the bread up, I try to give it another go, and manage to get it to my lips before my throat closes.
I set it down, press my forehead to my knees, breathe through the nausea that rises, falls, rises.
My ribs are knitting and the bruises on my sides have almost faded.
The one on my cheek is barely there now, a faint shadow that could pass for exhaustion in decent light.
My body keeps repairing itself no matter how little I eat.
I'd laugh if anything were funny anymore.
Matt is still gone, has been for hours when three guards come for me. The one with the sling opens my door and motions for me to move as the other two step inside. One carries a camera.
My mind goes still, as every muscle locks in horror. Every nerve firing while my body does absolutely nothing. I've seen the things they do with that camera.
"Up," says the one on the left. He's holding a clipboard. A clipboard. Like this is a routine physical instead of whatever comes next.
I stand. Not standing would mean more bruises and the inevitable still happening.
Somehow my legs hold, despite the lack of food and the terror coursing through my veins.
I keep my face blank as they push me through the door.
They can have my body, but they'll never get my fear. I'd rather swallow glass first.
They walk me down the narrow corridor between partitions, and through next to the one they beat me in last time.
The room beyond is smaller than I expected, concrete like everything else, but brighter, lit with two banks of fluorescent lights overhead.
A white sheet is taped to the far wall, next to it, a folding table loaded with photography gear.
The camera looks like a digital SLR, expensive, with a portrait lens.
Portraits.
Of course.
They're building a menu.
The clipboard guard stands by the table, reads from his notes in clipped Italian. Height. Build. Estimated age. Skin condition. His voice is flat as he notes defects and features with detached precision.
"Spogliati." He looks up for the first time. Strip.
My Italian is good enough now to understand commands, to catch guard conversations in fragments. I know exactly what he wants, but my hands stay still. Face blank.
He repeats it, slower, points at my clothes with the pen, like I might be too stupid to follow.
I understand. I just need one more second to build the wall inside my head. One more second to become the girl who picked locks, slept in parking garages, survived everything that should have ended her. One more second to be unreachable.
I pull the shirt over my head, gritting my teeth through the pain in my ribs as the fabric drops.
The rest follows, fast, because slow means more seconds of their eyes on new skin.
Fast is the only mercy I can give myself.
I stop when I'm down to my underwear and look up.
The guard smirks at me, tsking and making a hurry up motion with his pen.
I look down, avoiding their gaze, and take the rest off.
Lifting my chin up, I stare at a water stain on the opposite wall, barefoot on cold concrete under lights that hum in my teeth, while three men look at me like butchers sizing up meat.
The clipboard guard circles. Makes notes.
Fragments of words reach me. Fianchi. Seno.
Cicatrice. Hips. Breasts. Scar. He pauses at the thin white line on my left palm, from an accident when I was nine, Sean teaching me to ride a bike, me crashing into a fence, then Danny carrying me six blocks home while I screamed.
The guard writes something down, muttering under his breath.
The camera flashes. Front. Side. Back. He turns me by the shoulders like a package being readied for shipping, his touch clinical, efficient. It should feel safer than greed. It doesn't. Impersonal means I'm not a person. I'm stock. And that scares me,
The third guard moves from the door, where he had stood up until now. I've noticed him watching me, his gaze interested, unlike the clinical one of the other two. He speaks low and fast to the clipboard guard, who looks from me to him, then steps aside, scribbling more notes.
Permission.
The third guard crosses in four steps. Standing in front of me within seconds.
Close enough that his breath hits my collarbone, warm and wet, smelling of tobacco and cheap coffee.
His hand settles on my hip, fingers spreading wide.
Not moving, just… possessive as he watches my face for any signs of cracking.
I give him nothing, my eyes locking on the white sheet behind him, on the crease in the upper left corner where the tape pulls loose, fabric sagging.
I count the threads I can see. I am not here.
I am in a fourteenth-century apse outside Catania, assessing plaster decay.
Documenting deterioration. Anywhere but this room with his hand on my skin.
His fingers slide up. Over ribs. Press just hard enough to wake the bruises.
My jaw locks against the flare of pain. Eyes stay on the wall.
He traces the curve of my breast with his thumb, a slow circle, then flattens his palm over my sternum, right on my heartbeat.
His mouth finds my ear. Words so low they vibrate against my neck.
"Ti piaccio?"
My pulse hammers into his hand. I can't stop that. I control everything else, face and hands and breath, but not the heart. We both feel it.
His other hand grabs. Greedy. Fingers digging in, kneading, thumb dragging over my nipple. Mouth still at my ear, words spilling, promises of what he'll do, how long he'll take, how no one will stop him because I belong to the operation now and that means I belong to whoever wants me.
I stay in the church. Pigment faded in the lower register, but the upper holds its color. The apostle on the left has a crack through his halo. Needs acrylic resin before the rains.
His hand drops between my legs.
My body flinches. The wall crumbles. For one second I'm fully here, his fingers forcing past resistance, breath sawing at my throat, clipboard guard still writing, camera forgotten on the table because this isn't documentation anymore. This is him taking what he's been told he can have.
The door slams open.
Yelling. Multiple voices. A body hits the floor. For a confused heartbeat, I think it's mine, knees finally giving, but then a shape blocks the guard. Matt's voice, raw and ragged, louder than I've ever heard it, English because his Italian was always shit.
"Get the fuck off her. Get the fuck OFF her."
He's over me. Covering me. Back to the guards. Arms caging me, not trapping, shielding. He's shaking, adrenaline or pain or both. Through the gap between his shoulder and chin, I see the corridor. The two guards who dragged him back frozen in the doorway, mouths open. This wasn't the plan.
Boots land fast. Ribs. Back. Kidneys. Matt curls tighter around me, taking every hit, but he doesn't let go.
Air punches out of him in grunts. I grip his shirt in both fists, pull him closer, press my face into his chest because I can't watch another person break for me.
He holds me tight, shielding me from the world.
The flat-eyed guard says one word, and the kicking stops.