34. Lola #2
I float above, watching the girl in the dress get used. Her head lolls. Her eyes don’t close all the way. Her knees splay further with each push. She’s a hole for them to fill. Nothing else.
Another mouth at my ear. “Don’t pass out, baby. Stay with us. That’s a good girl.”
Hands slap my tits. My chest is naked. Fingers pinch my nipples, twist them, roll them until I whimper. More laughing.
The first man finishes in my mouth. I taste it. It’s hot and bitter. Sticks at the edges of my tongue. He lets go and my head flops forward.
I swallow, choke, spit leaks down my chin.
A new hand grabs my hair. Forces my mouth open again. Another cock. He slides in easy, fucks my face like it’s a toy. My head bangs against the mattress.
I gag. My lips crack at the edges.
The man behind me pulls out. Something runs down the back of my thigh.
They switch. Over and over. I am tossed, mouths and cocks and hands everywhere. My mind goes numb. My body is sore, holes leaking, skin on fire.
I disappear somewhere. Float above it all. I watch my own body go limp, just cargo for them to pass around. I can’t cry. I can’t scream. I am just a thing.
At some point, someone slaps my cheek. “Still awake?” I blink, but my eyes don’t work. It hurts less, now. Maybe I’m gone.
Blankness. Blackout.
I come to with my face mashed into the carpet, and no idea how I got there. My thigh pulses with pain. My dress is twisted around my waist. My hands tremble as I pull it down. Every part of me hurts.
There’s silence; the party must be over. The couch in the living room is splattered with makeup and cheap perfume. The lights are still on, but everything feels sick and gray.
I stand up, staggering. My knees buckle, and I grab the wall to steady myself. My palm leaves a smudge.
There’s a clock above the kitchen, but I can’t read the numbers. The world swims when I try to focus. I think it’s late. Maybe it's morning already.
I push on the front door; this time it opens.
No one is outside except a stray cat tearing into a trash bag.
My heels make my ankles scream, but I keep walking, even though I can’t remember where I parked.
Wandering up and down the street, I spot my car, relieved that my keys are still in my coat pocket.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, I breathe.
My body feels all wrong. My panties are gone.
My thighs are sticky, skin burning. I flinch from my own reflection in the mirror.
I just want Brody. I want his arms, his voice, the way he used to call me “Bambi” and make it sound like safety. I need him. I need him now.
But he’s not here. Everyone’s gone.
By the time I get home, Marcus is waiting. He opens the door on the first try, like he was listening for me all night. His eyes scan my body. I pull my dress down, shivering.
“Shameful,” he mutters. “You look like a whore. Did you do what they wanted, or just embarrass yourself again?”
I try to speak. My lips are frozen. He wouldn’t believe me anyways, even if I tried to defend myself.
He yanks my phone out of my purse and scrolls. “You’re on lockdown,” he announces, fingers digging into my shoulder. “No calls, no socials for two weeks. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about disappointing me.” He pushes me toward the stairs. I stumble, catching the banister just before falling.
In my room, I peel off the dress. It sticks to my skin, damp with sweat and something else. I throw it across the room and curl up on top of the covers. The sheets itch. Everything is too bright. My face is hot and wet.
I stare at the ceiling and replay it, over and over: the taste of that drink, the song stuck in my head, the cold press of the couch against my thigh. I try to remember anything good—Brody’s hands, his voice—but the memory slips.
All I feel is filth.
I lie there for hours. Maybe days. Marcus doesn’t come up, not at first. He never asks if I’m okay. Why would he? I’m not his biological daughter. I’m a product. I’m leftovers. I’m the daughter of the woman he married, who died, and now he’s stuck with me.
I’m not hungry. I’m not thirsty. I am nothing. Just a shell.
I want to call Brody so bad. Maybe he’d come rescue me. Maybe he’d burn this city to the ground. But I can’t. I have no phone. If I tried to escape, Marcus would find out. His punishments always get worse. Always.
Time blurs. All I have are pieces.
The sticky rush of soda and vodka, sour in the back of my throat.
That song, always that fucking song, vibrating through my skull.
The way the men’s hands bruised my arms, hot and rude, leaving fingerprints I can’t scrub off.
The freezing texture of the bedroom window, glass shining above me like a silent moon.
The blood on my inner thigh, only a little, but the sight of it makes me want to rip my skin off.
The words in my head: dirty, ruined, shameful, slut, nobody.
I try to disappear. Sometimes I succeed. I float outside myself, watching my blank face in the dark. Some days I want to smash everything in the house. Other days I just want to die.
What did I do wrong? Was it the dress? The way I smiled? The way I kept trying to be good?
I want Brody. I want him. But there is only the dark, and the smell of that drink, and the sound of the pop song looping forever.
This is how Marcus wins. He shatters me. Leaves me in pieces, and dares me to put myself back together.
I don’t know if I can.
I stare into the abyss, and it stares back at me. The stars do not blink. They burn, and burn, and burn. Light fades. Ghosts drift. Time unravels. Every second is swallowed by the endless dark.
In the space between breaths, the world narrows to a single ache —
The warmth that never comes, and the stars that keep burning. Indifferent and cold. Until they become nothing but burnt out dust, floating into a suffocating black-hole.