45. Nell
Lea sobs, too wracked with pain to even curl in on herself.
My throat is parched, my vision swimming. I try to move—but nothing happens. I’m still groggy, but the pressure on my wrists sharpens into focus. They’re pulled taut, stretched to either side of the bed. It takes a moment to register; I’m bound. Arms and legs tied down, spread-eagling me to the bed.
“Lea?”
My voice cracks as I strain against the ropes, twisting my wrist, trying to find the knot. But it’s useless. I’m too weak, too unfocused to see clearly, let alone untie anything.
“Lea, can you hear me? Are you okay?”
I crane my neck, desperate to see her. She’s trembling, her fingers clawing at her own back like she’s trying to tear the pain out of her skin.
“It hurts, Nell,”
she gasps, her voice raw. Every muscle twitch makes her flinch.
“I know. I know. But it’s going to be okay. I’ll get out of this—I’ll get you help.”
Even if I can’t. Even if we’re both screwed, she needs hope. And right now, that’s all I can give her.
But I know how bad this is. I know how much she needs medical care—and how far out of reach that is.
“I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
Her voice is thin, frayed at the edges like it’s unravelling with her.
And it breaks me. More than I already am.
Because she knows. She can feel it—whatever’s happening inside her, it’s not slowing down.
“No,”
I say, too fast, far too desperate.
“You’re not. We just need to take your mind off it until I can get free.”
I have to believe that, because I have to make her believe it too.
She’s just a kid. She should be worrying about school and birthdays, not whether she’ll make it through the next hour.
She lets out a sound—half sob, half breath—and curls slightly, her muscles spasming so hard her back arches off the mattress. Her fingers dig into her arms again, nails scraping skin like she’s trying to claw her way out of her own body.
“It hurts,”
she gasps.
“It’s like everything’s on fire inside me. I can’t—I can’t make it stop.”
“I know,”
I whisper, choking on the helplessness.
“I know. Just… talk to me, okay? Tell me something about your family.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her breath ragged, her body twitching with every wave of pain. Then, through clenched teeth.
“My mum… she sings when she cooks. Always off-key. She doesn’t care. She just twirls around the kitchen like she’s in a musical. My brother used to roll his eyes, but he’d end up dancing with her. He’d grab the broom and pretend it was a guitar.”
A faint smile flickers across her face, then vanishes as another spasm hits. She cries out, curling tighter, her entire body suffering through the tremors.
“My dad,”
she gasps.
“he used to make pancakes every Sunday. He’d shape them into animals—bad ones. Like, really bad. But he’d act like they were masterpieces. He’d call them ‘culinary sculptures.’”
She tries to laugh, but it turns into a sob.
“I miss them so much.”
“You’ll see them again,”
I say, voice cracking.
“You will. I promise.”
I don’t know if it’s true. But I say it anyway.
Because right now, hope is the only thing I can give her.
And I keep working the knot, my fingers raw and shaking, because I have to get us out.
Because she’s fading—and I can’t let her go.
“If you ever see them… will you tell them I love them? So much. Please?”
Her voice is barely there—just a thread of sound stretched thin by pain and fear.
My chest tightens. I want to scream, to tear the ropes apart with my bare hands.
But I don’t. I can’t. I have to stay steady—for her.
“No,”
I say, firm but shaking.
“You’re going to tell them yourself. I swear, Lea. Once I’m free, I’ll find a way out. I’ll get you home. I will.”
She closes her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.
I watch her breathing—shallow, uneven—and something inside me twists.
I can’t let her die here.
Not like this.
Not in this place, in this pain, with her last words meant for someone else.
The sound of footsteps echoes down the corridor—slow, deliberate, and heavy enough to make my heart slam against my ribs. I scramble, fingers raw and frantic as I claw at the knot that feels welded shut. It won’t budge. Panic starts to claw at my throat.
Two men step into the room. One I recognise—the one in the balaclava. The other is new, and worse. There’s something in his eyes that’s venomous.
Lea doesn’t move. She just lies there, still and silent, like she’s already surrendered to whatever comes next. But I haven’t. I won’t.
“This one’s a fighter,”
Balaclava says, nodding toward me.
“I think you’ll find her to your taste.”
The stranger’s lip curls—not into a smile, but something closer to a snarl. My stomach drops.
I have no weapons. No drugs. No way out.
Just me. And him. And if it means keeping him away from Lea, then I’ll take whatever comes.
“What about that one?”
he asks, nodding toward Lea.
Panic flares white-hot in my chest.
“Oi! Over here, dickhead,”
I snap, spitting the words like a blade.
“You want a fight? I’m right here.”
His eyes flick back to me, amused. Intrigued. He raises an eyebrow, then glances at Balaclava with a grin that makes my skin crawl.
“I see what you mean.”
Balaclava turns and leaves, the door creaking shut behind him—but not all the way. It stays ajar. Just enough.
Just enough for a chance.
When I’m done with him—if I survive—I’ll take it.
He’s already palming himself through his dress trousers, eyes dragging over me like I’m something laid out for sale in a butcher’s window.
Revulsion coils in my gut. Just looking at him makes my blood run cold.
“Give it your best shot,”
he sneers, voice thick with cruelty.
Then his hand is on me—twisting, pulling at my nipple—vicious and deliberate.
Pain flares white-hot, and I bite down on a scream, tasting blood.
He’s not like the others, he likes to know he’s raping us. He enjoys the struggle.
With my legs bound to either corner of the bed, I’m exposed—no way to shield myself, no way to hide. I’m laid bare, defenceless, with nothing between me and him.
He spears me with two fingers, stretching me open, purposefully making it as painful as he can.
“I like it when you fight back,”
he grunts, pulling his dick from his trousers. It’s small, fat and disgusting. Just like him.
“Fuck you,”
I spit, blood flecking across his face in a crimson spray.
He pauses deliberately as he wipes it away with the back of his hand. Then he inhales, slow and deep, like he’s savouring the moment.
The slap comes fast. My head snaps to the side, heat blooming across my cheek like fire under my skin. Before I can recover, the back of his hand crashes into the other side—his ring tearing through flesh, leaving a burning trail of blood in its wake.
All the while his fingers are still buried deep inside me, clawing at my body, trying to inflict as much damage as he can.
When he slams his hand over my mouth, forcing my head deep into the mattress, I strike. I bite down—hard—aiming to shatter bone, not just skin.
His fingers thrash, but I don’t let go. Blood floods my mouth, hot and metallic, and still, I clamp down harder, tasting his pain, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream. Maximum damage is my only aim.
It shocks him enough that he removes his fingers from me to crush my windpipe instead, in an attempt to get me to release him. But I hold on, right up until I have to draw in a ragged breath.
“You little bitch,”
he snarls, climbing on top of me. His weight crashes down, his thick belly pressing into mine—too close, too wrong.
His hand clamps around my throat, squeezing until the edges of my vision shimmers with stars.
I can’t breathe.
Can’t move.
Can’t fight.
I’m pinned—trapped beneath him, the air stolen from my lungs, the world narrowing to the crushing grip of his hand.
He pushes inside me, like wood against sandpaper, the friction burns my insides, my thighs try to protect me, but they’re pulled too tight to help.
But even the pain takes a back seat to the primal need to breathe.
My chest convulses, lungs clawing for air that won’t come. Strangled gasps escape me—wet and broken—but he doesn’t let go. He only tightens his grip, crushing the last threads of oxygen from my body.
Blackness creeps in at the edges of my vision. Only then—when I’m on the brink—does he ease his hold. Just enough.
I suck in a ragged breath, the air tearing down my throat like fire. My body heaves, desperate, starved, alive—but barely.
“I bet you’re worth a pretty penny. I’ll be looking out for you at the auction.”
It’s a threat, an acknowledgement that if I escape here, it’s only going to get worse.
But I can’t answer, not under his grip.
He grunts in a sickening way with each thrust of his hips, but it’s mostly flesh slapping against me.
I try to crane my neck, turning away from this sick cunt—back toward Lea. I just need to see her. To make sure she’s still safe.
She’s watching me, eyes wide with a fear so deep it doesn’t look human.
Is it for me? For herself? I can’t tell. Maybe both.
Then the door creaks again. Another man enters, laughing at something behind him.
He takes one look at the scene—me pinned and broken—and doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even think about leaving.
Instead, he nods at the man on top of me… and turns toward Lea.
No.
Not Lea.
“Stop it!”
I snap, voice raw with panic.
But the man above me is faster. His hand slams harder into my throat, cutting off the words, the air—everything.
“Eyes on me girl,”
he mumbles between thrusts.
Lea’s eyes flutter shut. She just lies there—a broken girl surrendering to the inevitable.
And I know what this will do to her.
Not just her body, but her mind and soul.
This kind of trauma doesn’t just leave scars. It buries you. And if something doesn’t stop it—if I don’t stop it—it will kill her.
“Get off her,”
I wheeze, the words barely scraping past my raw throat.
The man on top of me laughs—a low, cruel sound to remind me he’s enjoying the show. He shifts his grip, releasing my neck just enough for air to rush back in, but not enough to free me. Instead, he presses my face into the mattress, pinning me there like I’m nothing.
And then he turns his head—watching. Making me watch alongside him.
Watching as the other man climbs on top of Lea, looming over her like a reaper.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare scream.
He presses himself into her broken body, and I feel something inside me tear.
I scream again, but it’s useless.
He’s not listening.
None of them are.
She’s as pale as a ghost, barely tethered to consciousness when he begins forcing himself into her—ignoring the way her body convulses beneath him, every movement wracked with agony.
When he grips her hip like she’s just something to hold onto, rage detonates inside me—hot, blinding, unstoppable.
“You’re killing her! Get off her!”
I scream, voice cracking with fury and helplessness.
But he doesn’t look up, doesn’t even flinch.
He just keeps going, taking what he wants from a dying, helpless girl.
Her eyes find mine.
Gone is the spark and with it, the fight she had left.
What’s left is something hollow. Her brows draw together, her lips press into a hard, trembling line—but I can already see it.
She’s slipping.
Her body couldn’t take any more. And now this?
This is how she dies?
Not in peace. Not with dignity.
But brutalised. Dehumanised. Alone.
This isn’t suffering.
This is hell.
And there’s no God here—only pain, and silence, and death.
“Lea?”
I whisper, my voice breaking.
I’m not even aware of the man on top of me anymore—his weight, his breath, his hands pulling at me like I’m some puppet.
All I can do is watch.
Watch as the girl I’ve come to care for fades in front of me, in the worst way imaginable.
Her breaths grow shallower, each one more fragile than the last. Then her glassy eyes open wide, full of terror, but there’s no life behind them. Just emptiness.
She’s gone.
And I can’t do anything but watch.
The man on top of her doesn’t even notice. He keeps moving, using her like she’s still there, like she’s still alive.
Her body lies limp beneath him, her eyes fixed on me—vacant, unblinking.
Judging me.
Accusing me.
The woman who didn’t save her.
I didn’t protect her.
I failed her.
“Fight me, bitch,”
the man above me growls, frustrated by my stillness.
But there’s nothing left in me to fight with.
I can’t look away from Lea.
She’s frozen in that final moment—her lifeless gaze cutting through me like a blade. And he hasn’t even realised she’s dead.
The man on top of me strikes again. And again. Slaps, fists—whatever he can use. My lip splits. My skin burns. Every inch of me throbs with pain.
But it’s more than just my body he’s breaking.
It’s my spirit. My soul.
I stop fighting. I stop hoping. I just want it to end. Let him kill me. Let this be over. Because I can’t survive in this hell—not like this. Not when the only thing left inside me is the wish to disappear.
He pulls his dick out of me and stands, aiming it at my face, releasing his disgustingly warm cum all over me—marking me like a dog scents a tree. My eyes burn as the salty liquid seeps into them. I clamp my mouth shut, hold my breath like it’s armour, like silence might somehow shield me.
And to make it worse he wipes the tip of his cock against my lips to clean himself off.
“I can’t wait to own you, poppet. You’re going to bring me so much fun.”
His words hang in the air—thick, toxic, impossible to breathe through. Then he tucks himself away, turns his back, and walks out like nothing happened.
Like I’m nothing.
When the other man finally realises Lea is dead—when he sees the blood smeared across his dick from where her body gave out—he recoils in disgust.
He stands, muttering curses, wiping himself off on the sheets like she’s nothing more than a mess to be cleaned up.
He doesn’t even look at her. Doesn’t look at me. Just grumbles about the money he’s wasted and walks out, leaving the door swinging behind him.
And then it’s just us.
Me and her.
Alone in the silence that follows horror.
I stare at her, willing her to move, to blink, to breathe. To do something other than stare at me with failure written all over her face.
But she doesn’t.
She won’t.
Blood stains her skin in deep crimson streaks, pooling beneath her, dripping off the edge of the mattress. Her body lies twisted, bent in a way no living person could endure.
She looks so small. And she’s so fucking still.
“I’m sorry, Lea,”
I whisper, the words breaking apart in my throat.
I can’t reach her.
Can’t hold her.
But there she lies—arm outstretched from the bed, hanging limp. And all I can do is lie here—bound and broken—and drown in the truth of what I didn’t do.
I didn’t save her.
And now she’s gone.