Chapter 12 #2
This makes him really angry, and he waterboarded me just last week until I swore he was going to kill me. He keeps saying he’s not allowed to touch me the way he does the other people at the center, and I know he’s frustrated by it.
A part of me wishes I was still a virgin, because then I might not be going through this to unlock my designation. The grass always looks greener on the other side though. I might be wrong in my thoughts.
“Let’s see if we can make you slick, shall we?” he asks, pressing a button. He says this often, and I know he desperately wants me to be an omega.
I’m just fucked up enough to hope I am one if it’ll make him happy, despite the knowledge that things don’t go well in the human trafficking industry for omegas. The cycle is simple: once a designation is unlocked, they’re trained for several months and then sold on their birthday.
It’s Mr. James’ way of celebrating.
It isn’t a vibration Dr. Reach starts, but rather, it feels like I’m being electrocuted through my pussy. I scream as the pulses travel through my body, and every time it seems as if I’m going to pass out, a guard shoves strong smelling salts under my nose.
I can’t hide from the pain, and there’s no way to escape it. Instead, my body pulses and Dr. Reach doesn’t stop for hours. It’s not until finally, a cramp that has nothing to do with his not so tender ministrations hits my stomach.
Dr. Reach breathes in deeply and chuckles as thick fluid pushes out onto his fingers.
“Fuck yeah. We have an omega, gentlemen! We can start training her as soon as tomorrow to be sold,” he cheers, turning off his device and yanking it out.
My body flinches in pain and I don’t miss the way Dr. Reach sucks his fingers as darkness begins to suck me under. He walks out of the room to speak to someone, and I expect it’s probably Mr. James.
All these people care about is recouping their money with interest, no matter the cost to their precious inventory.
“Alisa!”
Gasping in a breath as I sob, I open my eyes to find five alphas surrounding me. The doctor is shaking as I curl into myself as I sob, but I can’t bring myself to move away when Silas begins to rub my back.
“That was some nightmare,” he whispers.
“I had one too, but I have a feeling yours was worse,” Troy says softly, squatting on the ground to take my hand. “Breathe in and out, Little Fighter. That’s it.”
“I’m not…a fighter,” I scream. Everything feels overwhelming and loud after reliving the moment my designation was forced on me. If possible, even my skin hurts.
“No?” East asks. “Could have fooled me. Was your dream about the men we’re going to be killing tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, my breaths heaving as my tears begin to slow.
“Well, it’s already the next day, so we’ll be planning today and the following day we’ll kill the men who hurt you,” he says. “Was this about them?”
“No, this happened a very long time ago,” I whisper
“Is it something I need to know about?” Dr. Walsh asks.
“Ugh, I don’t like you right now,” I groan, flopping onto my back, trying to catch my breath and slow the tears. It probably is something I need to tell him about, even if only to see if it can be shut down. “Hypothetically…”
“Mmhmm,” he says intently, watching me closely as I learn how to breathe.
“What if there were ways to force a person’s designation before they were eighteen?” I whisper.
“I would say it wasn’t ethical or natural,” he growls. “How are they doing it?”
“Hypothetically?” I ask.
“Sure, Alisa. Hypothetically,” Lyle says.
My eyes move toward him and I tell myself this isn’t for myself. It’s for every child who may step into Dorchadas Institute by way of a cage.
“Forms of trauma. For some, it was rape, for others medical torture,” I explain. “That’s what I dream about.”
“Those bastards,” Dr. Walsh growls. “I can’t even begin to tell you how fucked up this is. Hypothetically…”
“Yes,” I hiccup.
“Drink some water,” Silas suggests, helping me into a sitting position. “Hiccups at night are the fucking worse.”
Troy picks up a tumbler on the nightstand, and I hum with appreciation when I take a sip and find the water is ice cold.
“I dreamed of duct tape and a woman with bad hair extensions,” he grumbles. “I will not be going back to sleep again.”
“Don’t you have to play tomorrow?” I ask. I hold onto the tidbits of information these men have told me about themselves like a lifeline, because I won’t be able to fall asleep again either.
“I’ll take a nap while the sun is shining and it’s safe,” he shrugs, taking a seat. “Do you feel like watching a movie with us?”
“My experience with pop culture sucks,” I remind him. “But I could watch something.”
Lyle, Silas, Easton, and even Dr. Walsh sit around me and I wince as I think about how I woke them all up.
“I’m really sorry for waking you up,” I say, taking the tissues Dr. Walsh hands me to mop up my face. For a girl who hates to cry, I sure do it often.
“I was already awake,” Troy shrugs, pulling up a screen with a remote control on the television. I haven’t watched television in years.
“I felt when Troy woke up,” East murmurs.
“I’d rather know if you were in pain than sleep through it,” Lyle says easily.
“We’ll take a group nap tomorrow. None of us are working today outside of planning a death room,” Silas says. “I’ll ask someone about your hypothetical experience to see if we can track this place down. Do you have any hypothetical names for me?”
This is beginning to get a little silly, but it’s helping me talk.
I’ve lived for a long time with the idea that snitches get stitches, even though I’ve taken creative license with the meaning of this.
I fucked over Makayla by telling Bret all about her and what she was doing at the club, though some of the things were conflated.
Maybe I can find a way to be a better person by helping kids in the facility I was held in while I was sixteen. It’s worth a shot.
“Yeah, I have quite a few,” I say, taking a deep breath. Troy places the bottle of water on the nightstand and I pick at my nails as a stare at them. “Cohen James owns the building, the inventory, and employs everyone at Dorchadas Institute…”
Anxiety claws at me as I pull at the threads of my past. Remembering the names of those who have hurt me has never been a problem. Instead, I can’t remember the way my brothers hugged me or the way the air smelled while climbing a tree with Hollis.
My childhood is fading in ways I mourn because I didn’t fully enjoy what I had until it was gone. My father largely ignored me but he worked often and I had my brothers to keep me company, even if they are over ten years older than I am. I miss when things were simpler.
Now, I have nothing but memories of men who hurt me for profit and ignored my autonomy. Television will have to wait while I tell them hypothetical details about my fucked up life until the sun begins to rise.