It was the only thing that got me through touches from dirty fingers and violent invasions from men that weren’t my shadow.
Afterward, Rio carried me up to my bed, my legs physically unable to support
me from the abuse my body endured. He couldn’t look at me. Not when he did
nothing while men stole from me, and then he picked up that broken girl and carried her to bed—only because Francesca demanded it of him.
But he did speak to me. He told me about the chupacabra, a mythical being
rumored to terrorize Puerto Rico. He told me when he was young, he was
playing with his baby sister when he swears that he saw it. A grotesque gray creature with wings, and it flew by before he could blink.
I don't know why he told me that story. Maybe to distract me, but I suppose it
worked. He gave me a monster that didn't feel real instead of focusing on the monsters that are.
“Get up.” The sharp slap that follows the harsh words startles me, and I yelp
from both the surprise and pain. I hadn’t even heard her come in, despite her loud-ass heels. She must’ve gotten new ones already.
I look up to find Francesca staring down at me, a frown marring her bright pink lips. She looks disappointed in me, and I hate how small that makes me feel.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. What am I supposed to do?
Apologize?
After she assaulted me with her broken heel and I was gang-banged by
Rocco’s friends, she couldn’t bear looking at me for a full day. Yesterday, I had
finally broken through and managed to convince her that Sydney was the one to
destroy her things.
She didn’t apologize. Didn’t even appear remorseful. But she did lock Sydney
in an old cellar on the property for the entire day, and I’m almost ashamed to admit how much it soothed my soul to hear her screaming to be let out. Already, I’m changing, and the old Addie is unrecognizable.
I’ve never wanted to hurt someone until now. Never felt the urge to grab a knife and rip someone’s throat open ear to ear.
I’m vibrating with it, but Sydney isn’t the only one on the receiving end. I’m pissed at every single person in this house, save for the other innocent girls.
Especially with Francesca, and every man who stole a piece of my soul that
night. A piece I don’t even think Zade will ever be able to get back for me.
There will always be pockets missing where my innocence used to reside.
“Get ready in the beauty room. Our guests will be here soon.” Her eyes
flicker down my body snidely. “Look presentable,” she tacks on, the words digging into my skin like a needle, before turning and walking out, her clicking heels echoing against the hardwood floor.
Grinding my teeth, it takes monumental effort not to fucking scream. From rage, pain, and just pure frustration.
Instead, I force my battered body into movement, slip out of the lumpy bed and pad my way towards the beauty room.
Men’s voices drift from below, and the sound sends my heart flying to my throat. I work to swallow as I meet Phoebe at the threshold.
The second our eyes meet, both of us look away. Incapable of connecting
over something that we both suffered through. Shame. Embarrassment. Sorrow.
All are at the forefront as we walk into the room.
Bethany and Gloria are picking through the clothes on a rack Francesca
must’ve set out for us. Instead of revealing outfits, warm clothing hangs from the
metal rod. Guess it wouldn’t be ideal for five girls to run for their life with a thong riding up their ass and tassels hanging from their nipples in freezing weather.
Jillian is sitting at a vanity and putting on concealer in hopes of covering up
the dark circles rimming the underside of her eyes. Briefly, we make eye contact,
but her gaze flickers away immediately. I haven’t seen her since our punishment
—apparently, she’s been sick and has missed out on the last couple of lessons.
A swarm of angry bees rises up my throat, and I can’t stop the uncontrollable
bitterness from taking hold, seizing my heartstrings, and turning it into a puppet
of mass destruction.
Did she sleep that night? Hearing three girls scream in pain and begging for
them to stop? Begging and begging and begging.
Please.
Pleaaase, stop!
Please, I’m begging you!
Please… please… please…
Has she grown tired of the word? Does it sound funny to her now? When a
word is said so many times, it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore. It sounds like gibberish—a sound comprised of pitch and tones that hold no real meaning.
A construct that humans have formed to communicate their wants and needs. But
what do words fucking matter when no one listens?
Her eyes meet mine again, a glossy sheen over the surface of them. And there
it is. Shame. Embarrassment. Sorrow.
She made it out unscathed, and it looks like survivor’s guilt has been gnawing
at her insides for the past few days.
I deflate, berating myself for taking my anger out on someone who doesn’t deserve it. Jillian is just trying to survive like the rest of us. None of this is her fault.
Then, Sydney walks in, all high and mighty, and my unwarranted anger
towards Jillian redirects itself towards the person who actually deserves it. She acts as if she didn’t spend an entire day screaming in a cellar.
Biting my tongue, I walk over to the vanity next to Jillian, my movements mechanical. My bones feel like rusty hinges as I reach for a bright pink sponge and concealer. It’s going to take mounds of it to hide the distress, but I settle with a few dollops to start.
My hand trembles as I apply chemicals to my face that are meant to hide my
pain. Bethany and Phoebe talk quietly in the background, whispers full of fear and comfort.
Bad, bad girls.
I consider listening in on their conversation, but I’m distracted when Sydney
starts tearing off her clothes until she’s naked. Jillian and I have a clear view of her through our vanity mirrors. We both pause, hands suspended in the air as we stare at the unhinged girl behind us, now picking through the clothes on the rack.
Bethany and Phoebe’s whispers taper off, and soon the entire room is
disturbingly enraptured by her.