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“Of course I do, Jonny,” I say automatically. It had been ingrained in my brain with fists during my first day of training.
“Hmm . . .” His hands squeeze my waist, then pull my lacy thong, white as well, down my legs. “I usually like it slow. But you are too sweet. I don’t think I can wait.”
The moment he has my panties removed, he throws me onto the bed. I lie there, unmoving, and watch him take off his jacket. His tie is next, and my body shakes as he loosens the knot. One of my previous clients wrapped his tie around my neck while he fucked me from behind, pulling on it every time he thrust into me, cutting off my air. I close my eyes in relief when Mr. Miller throws his tie to the floor. He starts on his dress shirt, but only undoes the first two buttons and moves to his pants. My breathing pace picks up. At least he removed the tie. I can handle the shirt.
“Open your legs wide, honeybee,” he says as he puts on the condom. The guy who runs the organization is very strict on protection, but it’s more about making sure the clients are safe than the girls’ safety.
Mr. Miller crawls across the bed until he is looming above me. The vein at the side of his neck pulses. He watches me with wide eyes, then dips his head and licks my naked breast. I grit my teeth together, willing myself not to recoil. It doesn’t end well when I recoil. I hope the music will come, making this a little easier to block out. It doesn’t. The last time I heard the music was that snowy night. Sometimes, when I lie in bed, trying to sleep, I drum my fingers on the bedside as if it’ll help call the melody. But I don’t hear it like I used to.
Mr. Miller’s meaty hands grip the inside of my thighs, spreading my legs apart. The next moment, his cock thrusts inside me all at once.
It hurts. It always hurts, but without the drugs to scramble my mind, it’s a thousand times worse. I tilt my head up and stare at the ceiling as he slams into me again. At times like these, I try to disconnect, to mentally pull away and toward a happy memory, hoping to detach myself from yet another rape.
Thank God, a memory pops into my brain.
It’s the summer before my sophomore year of high school. I’m sitting in the garden, reading, while my twin sister chases her Maltese—Bonbon—across the lawn. Poor animal. She even put a yellow silk bow on his head. When Sienna said she wanted a dog, I was sure Arturo would say no. Our brother is not a fan of keeping animals inside the house. I have no idea how she managed to convince him to let her have one.
“Asya!” Sienna yells. “Come!”
I wave my hand at her and keep reading. The murder mystery is just being unraveled, and I’m eager to see who the culprit is. I’m sure it’s . . .
A spray of cold water splashes my chest. I scream and jump up off the chair, glaring at my sister. She’s holding a watering hose in her hand, laughing like a madwoman.
“You’re dead!” I chuckle and dash toward her. She’s still doubled over from laughter when I reach her. I grab the hose, pull the collar of her top, and send the water stream down her back.
Sienna shrieks and turns, then grabs the hose, trying to direct it at me, but it just ends up spraying her face. I’m still laughing when I lift my free hand to wipe the water from my eyes, but I stop mid-motion. My hand is red. I look at the hose in my grip. It’s pouring red liquid onto the ground around my feet. Blood.
I open my eyes and stare at the white ceiling above me while the smell of sweat infiltrates my nostrils. Yeah . . . the happy memory trick never works that well.
Mr. Miller keeps pounding into me, his labored breaths blowing into my face, and beads of sweat dripping onto me. He groans loudly, the sound reminding me of some huge animal in rage. Abruptly, he stops and pulls out. His weight disappears. I lift my head off the pillow and see him slumped on his knees at the foot of the bed, his hands clawing at his chest. He’s breathing hard. His face is red as he stares at me with wide eyes.
“The . . . pills,” he chokes out. “In . . . the jacket.”
I just gape at him for a few moments before getting up off the bed and running toward his jacket where he had left it on the back of a chair. I find an orange bottle in the left pocket and take it out. Mr. Miller is slumped on all fours, trying to draw breath.
“Give me . . .” he wheezes, raising his arm in my direction.
I look down at the bottle in my hand and back up, taking in his flustered face and rheumy eyes. Slowly, I step further back. Mr. Miller’s enormous eyes glare at me. I retreat a few more steps until I feel the wall behind my back.
And then, I watch.
It lasts less than two minutes. Wheezing. Shallow, labored breaths. And finally, a choking sound. Mr. Miller collapses sideways onto the bed, his head tilted up in my direction, eyes bulging. It looks like he is trying to speak, but the words are jumbled. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I see it on his face. He is begging. I stay rooted to the spot, clutching the medicine bottle in my hand, and watch a man dying before my eyes. With each breath he takes, I feel the remains of my soul, or whatever is left inside me, die a little more. Until there is nothing, just a black hole.
The door on my left bangs open and my driver barges inside. He runs toward Mr. Miller’s body, which is lying still across the bed, and places his fingers on the man’s neck.
“Fuck!” the driver spits out and turns to me. “What have you done, bitch?”
I ignore him. For some reason, I can’t take my eyes off the body on the bed. The eyes are still open, and even though I can’t see them clearly, it seems like they are still looking directly at me. A slap lands on the side of my face.
“Wake the fuck up! We need to leave,” the driver barks.
When I don’t move, he grabs my arm and starts shaking me. A moment later, I feel the prick of a needle in my arm.
No!
That prick awakens whatever is left of my self-preservation. The pill bottle falls out of my hand. I pull my arm away, turn, and run out into the hallway.
It’s well into the night and the inside of this place seems deserted. The two wide yellow stripes running the length of the carpet help me orient myself, and I follow them, running along several hallways in search of an exit. My vision clouds, and I’m becoming lightheaded. Every step I take is harder than the previous one, and it feels as if my legs are weighed down by concrete blocks. I turn the corner and keep running until I see a door at the end. There is a green-lit sign above it. I can’t read the letters, but there is only one thing it could be. The exit.
