39. Maricela
Several hours—or what feels like several hours—pass before the same man who opened the door before does so again. The tactic is straightforward.
He wants to wear us down to exhaustion first, and he succeeded. People tend to believe that it’s possible to get used to pain, that we even remember it. But we don’t.
We recognize the pain as something familiar when it comes. A migraine, a stomachache, a pain reserved for a disease we know, is a pain we can expect. But we can’t get used to it.
Our body has developed a mechanism to continue living without the memory of the pain. The receptors of the brain take care of us.
For example, I remember the feeling that the rape left in me. It’s the kind of phantom pain a person who has lost a limb feels, but I can’t remember the pain I felt at that moment. However, the trauma has stayed with me and will forever.
“Wake up, whores,” he calls with disdain in his tone. None of us sleeps, but the pain in our hands is immense. Our blood flow can be compromised at any moment.
“I’ve never had such quiet whores. What are the Italians doing to you?” another man with a much heavier accent asks.
I can’t see his face because of the light shining in from outside the room. This is also done on purpose. They don’t believe we’ll get out of here, but in any case, they aren’t ready for us to see their faces.
I feel his breath on me, a different minty scent than the pleasant one that overwhelms Killian, entering my nose. This guy chews a spicy gum. I need to remember that. Every tiny detail is essential so we have information to give Killian.
Killian. I hope I get to see him again—that I have a chance to tell him I love him. Will I get to feel him wrap me in his arms every night? Will I get to feel him between my legs again?
A wayward tear wets my cheek, and I have no way to wipe it from my face. But I wouldn’t do that anyway.
Dirty hands touch my face as I try to ignore the disgust of his touch on my skin and try to study his face.
The light from behind him no longer hurts my eyes, and I see almost white-blond hair, thick lips, and a tear tattoo on a purple eye. He has albinism.
“You have such smooth skin. Maybe I’ll fuck you, even though you’re a dirty whore.” I don’t move. I don’t dare show him my fear. Instead, I smile. All I can do is hope he falls for my ruse.
“Killian hasn’t fucked me for a month. He’s keeping me alive to find out if he’s infected from me. It doesn’t matter who kills me. You or him.”
A good lie is a lie that has a pinch of truth in it. The pain from Killian’s lack of touch is in my voice, and I know it.
“So maybe his cock will relieve me of the problem of his existence. Your dirty pussy might solve a big problem for me.”
“That hurts me terribly,” I say sweetly. “Can you untie us? We won’t run away. We don’t even know where we are.”
“You’ll be in a lot more pain soon,” the man states, and one gold tooth sticks out of his mouth. It will be easy for me to identify him later.
“Killian prefers to see me on my knees when it hurts. Pain doesn’t scare me. I’m used to it.”
It’s not a lie, either. I’m not afraid of pain, and it’s not necessarily because of Killian’s methods with me when it comes to sex. It’s more because I know what real pain is, which doesn’t depend on pleasure in any way.
“Well, I’ll be nice to you,” he decides and licks my face, leaving a trail of saliva. I do everything not to shrink from his touch and act like the whore he thinks I am.
He takes out a knife and cuts the knot from my right hand, then does the same with my other hand, and I collapse to the floor. Lila and Raven, who have been silent so far as I asked them to, also fall to the floor.
Raven is the only one who doesn’t make a sound from the fall, as if physical pain doesn’t deter her.
I try to see their faces, but the darkness won’t let me. The Albanian man grabs my hand and jerks me to my feet.
I know what will come now will destroy my soul a little more, but I’ll do everything to survive and return to Connie, Amado, and Killian. They are my only reason to be a part of this universe.