Last Rites

by Danielle Vega

  If I don’t eat everything, the nurse who comes to collect our plates and utensils gives me a dirty look before scurrying away.

  “They make a note of your appetite in your chart,” she warns me after breakfast on the second day, when I barely touch the soft, sludgy food they served me. “Not eating is a sign of passive aggression.”

  I knew that. I feel stupid for forgetting.

  After that, I lick my tray clean every meal.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’m released after three days (has it only been three days? It felt like weeks and weeks). They’ve lowered my meds, but I still feel like my head is filled with packing peanuts. The tips of my fingers tingle.

  My canvas slip-ons scuff over the concrete floors in the hallway. Scuff. Scuff. The sound makes me think of zombies stumbling around on half-dead limbs, their hands grasping in front of them. I walk past Lara sobbing in the corner. And Genie, who winds a lock of brown hair around her finger and pulls. A cockroach climbs up the wall behind her, disappearing through a crack in the plaster.

  The hall leading to my room feels ten degrees too cold. Goose bumps crawl up my arms, making the tiny brown hairs stand straight up, like soldiers called to attention. I stop outside my room, but I don’t open the door.

  I don’t want to face that room. I don’t want to see that someone’s unpacked my suitcase, placing all my things back where they belong. T-shirts folded and tucked inside dresser drawers. That ugly hippopotamus sitting in the middle of my bed.

  But it’s not like I have a choice. I take a deep breath. Turn the doorknob.

  Sofia looks up from the book she’d been reading, blinking at me like I’m a ghost. “Holy shit. You’re back.”

  She leaps off the bed in a tangle of limbs, racing across the room to throw her arms around my shoulders. I close my eyes, gritting my teeth as I hug her back. Her arms are too thin. I can feel her bones poking through her papery skin, grating against my bones.

  I know the feeling is exaggerated—leftover jitteriness from all the drugs I was on—but I squirm away from her anyway.

  She frowns. “I was seriously freaked out. They wouldn’t tell me where they’d taken you.”

  I sink onto my bed, pulling my knees to my chest. “Solitary.”

  “Shit.” Sofia’s face falls. She lowers herself to the bed opposite me. “You don’t look great.”

  “Think I can request a facial?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but my voice falls flat. Harper, Mara, and I used to text each other when we found deals for fifty-dollar facials at this cute place around the corner from Harper’s house. Now the idea of that much decadence seems ludicrous.

  The corner of Sofia’s lip twitches. “Seriously,” she asks, “you okay?”

  I wrap my arms around myself, pressing my fingers into my shoulder blades. I haven’t given much thought to whether I’m okay. The last few days have felt like a bad dream, one I’ve spent all my energy trying to wake up from. The life I used to have—the one with facials and pancakes with whipped cream faces and nail polish art—seems like it belongs to someone else.

  Now that I know I’m awake, I just feel . . . numb.

  Sofia scoots to the edge of her bed when I don’t answer her question. “What they did to you sucked. You were all set to go home, and they just decided to keep you here? That’s messed up.”

  I swallow. After a moment I say, “That’s not exactly what happened.”

  Another frown. “What do you mean?”

  I roll my lip between my teeth. Part of me still doesn’t want to admit it out loud. But that’s always been my problem, hasn’t it? I won’t admit my sins. I’d rather make up some happy story than tell the truth.

  “I lied. In therapy,” I say finally. “Dr. Andrews found out.”

  Sofia blows air out through her teeth. “Shit,” she says again.

  “I didn’t think it was a big deal . . .” I trail off, considering this, and then try again. “No, that’s not true. I knew it was a big deal. I just didn’t think she’d find out.”

  Sofia doesn’t say I told you so, even though she has every right. She picks up her book and taps a finger against the spine. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know.” I close my eyes and press my fingers into the lids, rubbing in slow circles. I think of that cold, empty room, the restraints digging into my wrists, and I hold back a shudder. “I never want to go back there.” I open my eyes, blinking. “How did you survive a month?”

  Sofia stares back at me, her face oddly vacant. “It was rough.”

  “It was torture.”

  “It’s not too late. Just tell Dr. Andrews what she wants to hear. Get the fuck out of here.”

  I stare at Sofia’s twitching finger. Tap tap tap. Like she’s releasing a sudden burst of energy. I shake my head and look away. “You think?”

  “When’s your next therapy session? Tomorrow?” I nod, and she says, “Do it then. Tell Andrews exactly what happened. She can’t keep you here forever.”

  Exactly what happened. I think of Tayla, lining her eyes in wobbly black lines. Asking me if she can borrow a top for Mara’s big end-of-the-year party.

  “You don’t have to go,” I’d told Tayla, annoyed. “I know you don’t want to.”

  Her, answering with a shrug, “They’re my friends, too.”

  But they weren’t, really. Not anymore. Harper and Mara were my friends. Tayla just hung out with us.

  My mouth feels dry, but I make myself smile. “You make it sound easy.”

  “The truth is never easy,” Sofia says. She leans back against the wall, feet dangling over the edge of her bed. “If it were, I’d be long gone by now.”

  “You’ll get there,” I say, and my voice cracks. “Both of us will. We’re getting out of here and never looking back, I fucking swear it.”

  Sofia scratches her tattoo. The scab had just started to heal, but the corner of her nail flicks against it, drawing blood. A drop falls onto her bed, blossoming on the white sheets like a flower.

  She presses her thumb into the fabric, soaking it up. “I know we will,” she says.

  CHAPTER 18

  After

  Elyse removes my leather jacket, ripping lining and breaking zippers, her fingernails snaring on skin. I try to fight—hands clawing, elbows swinging—but I feel clumsy and uncoordinated, my body moving much too slowly. She jabs her shoulder into my collarbone, easily pinning me against the wall.

  Her face is close to mine, teeth bared like she’s about to bite. “How do you like us now, college girl?”

  She spits the last two words. College girl. My brain is still sludgy with booze and drugs. I blink and say, through clenched teeth, “You’re doing this because you’re jealous of some students?”

  A slow shake of her head. “You American girls are all alike. You are like vermin in this town. Like rats crawling in where nobody wants you, patting yourselves on the back because tourism brings us poor Italians money.” Her upper lip curls. “You never think of what you take away just by being here.”

  I remember the expression on Francesca’s face while she served wine at Professor Coletti’s. That vague, blank stare.

  They think they understand us because they know one of our stories.

  In the story, Lucia’s sacrifice drives out all the other sinners. Do they really think that sacrificing me will drive out the American students?

  “Look, if you let me go, I’ll get my friends to leave, okay?” My brain is working as fast as it can, trying to think of something, anything, I can offer her. “We’ll be out of your town tonight, I swear.”

  “Just three girls? What difference will that make?”

  She’s right, it’s not a logical solution, but I can’t seem to get my brain working properly. Everything seems muddy and confusing. I throw my weight again
st Elyse’s hands, trying to push her off me. “I’m not even a student, you freak!”

  “Stupid girl. We didn’t take you because you are a student. We took you because you are diavolina.”

  “Think,” Angelica says, interrupting her own chant. “We think she is diavolina. We agreed to test her first.”

  The word test zips down my spine like a warning. Elyse turns, shifting her weight off my collarbone. She says something in Italian, but I barely hear her. Something black flashes in the corner, just beyond her shoulder. It’s so dark down here I thought it was just a patch of shadow. But it’s not.

  It’s a doorway. A second door, leading to God knows where. I glance at the exit we came down, but Francesca has planted herself in front of it, blocking the way out. This second doorway might be my only chance of escape.

  I swallow, trying to gather energy in my muscles. I still feel slow, sluggish, weighted down with drugs and booze and fear, but I think of stories I’ve heard of mothers who get crazy spurts of adrenaline when their children are in danger, how they manage to lift cars and run crazy distances.

  “You made a promise, Francesca,” Angelica says. She hugs the Bible closer to her chest. “We said—“

  I push myself off the wall, lunging for the doorway. I catch the flip of Elyse’s hair as she spins around and hear Francesca shout something that sounds like a curse. Blood fills my ears, and my vision narrows to a pinpoint. The doorway is so close.

  I wrap my fingers around the corner of the wall and use the momentum to propel myself into the dark. I have one foot down the tunnel—

  Fingers tangle in my hair, and I’m jerked back, gasping. Elyse’s knuckles come down hard across my cheekbone. I stumble, knocking over a candle as I fall to the ground. Pain lights up the side of my face.

  Elyse kneels in front of me. She takes my chin in one hand, squeezing my cheeks until my lips purse. “Do not make this harder than it has to be.”

  I want to spit at her. But my tongue is too dry, the side of my face huge and pulsing. I can still see the edge of the door out of the corner of my eye, my last chance of escape. I can’t seem to catch my breath.

  “That’ll do,” Francesca says, sounding bored. Elyse wrinkles her nose, giving my cheeks one final squeeze. She lets go, and I lurch forward, gasping.

  I’m going to die down here, I think. And then I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing that thought away. It isn’t helpful. I need to think. I need to come up with a plan.

  But even I can see that the idea is ludicrous. Plan? I’m deep underground with three crazy girls, outnumbered, and coming down hard from a night of partying. A plan isn’t going to get me out of this. I’ll need a miracle.

  “We are wasting time.” Francesca tilts her head, eyes traveling over the black lace and nude silk of my teddy. “Let’s begin.”

  Begin. The word sends something vicious twisting through me. Angelica’s voice wavers as she restarts her chant. “Jú . . . júdica Dómine nocéntes . . . me; expúgna impugnántes me . . .”

  Elyse grabs a handful of my hair and yanks me upright. Pain flares through my scalp.

  “Get off!” I struggle to steady my breathing. “Begin what? What are you going to do to me?”

  She tugs my hands behind my back, snickering under her breath.

  This isn’t happening, I think. It’s a joke. It’s a dream. It’s . . .

  But when I open my eyes again, Francesca is in front of me. Candlelight flickers behind her, leaving her face in darkness. I don’t see her lips move as she says, “Are you ready?”

  My head spins wildly, trying to make sense of what’s about to happen. Test. They said something about a test. That means there’s a way to pass and a way to fail. If I pass, I can’t be a diavolina, right? Elyse and Francesca want to hurt me, but Angelica is here only because she really thinks I’m evil. If I pass the test, she’ll make them let me go.

  Hope blooms inside my chest. I still have a chance of getting out of here.

  Elyse pinches the back of my neck and shoves me into the middle of the room. I stumble, grabbing the table to keep from falling.

  “Up you go,” Elyse says.

  I curl my fingers around the edge of the table. It feels rickety, the wood at least a hundred years old and covered in layers of dust and grime.

  And something else. Something that looks a lot like blood. I swallow and look away. “You want me to climb onto this thing?”

  “I won’t ask twice.”

  My eyes dart left and right, but there are no other options, no way out. Heat seems to press in around me, making the air tremble.

  Arms shaking, I pull myself onto the table. It’s massive, several feet longer than my body. The wooden legs groan when I lower myself to my back, but they hold.

  There are wooden levers attached to either end of the wood, each holding a coil of rope. My eyes flick over the ropes and then away again. I don’t want to look at them directly. Don’t want to think too hard about what they’re for.

  This is a test, I think, clenching and unclenching my hands. If I pass, maybe everything will be okay.

  For a moment, the only sound in the small room is Angelica’s voice. “Confundántur et revereántur quaeréntes ánimam meam . . .”

  Francesca removes a small knife from her pocket and flicks it open. The blade catches the candlelight, glinting silver and gold. My heart leaps into my chest. I curl my fingers into the wood.

  “In the old days, villagers would talk of a devil’s mark, a spot on a diavolina’s body that does not feel any pain. You can stab and stab this piece of flesh, and still the whore will not bleed. Let’s see if we can find your mark.”

  I can’t take my eyes off the knife blade. Francesca tilts it back and forth, just before my face, causing the flickering gold light to move up and down its edge.

  I think of leaping off the table now, pushing past Francesca, running desperately for the doorway again. But Elyse stands just behind her, arms crossed over her chest, looking like she’d love another reason to hit me.

  I shift my eyes to the low ceiling, trying hard to keep my breathing steady.

  This is a test . . .

  Francesca leans forward, resting the blade against my cheek without actually cutting me. The cold metal feels like a salve on my hot skin. “This is how we will know if you are diavolina. We will cut you and see if you bleed.”

  A shaky breath rattles my lungs. The hair on my arms stands straight up.

  It’s a test, I tell myself. I just have to find a way to pass.

  Francesca removes the knife from my cheek, and a cold wave of relief washes over me. I don’t dare move or breathe, convinced that any sudden movement will cause her to press the blade to my skin again. Francesca stares down at me, a strangely detached expression on her face, like she’s thinking something through. Then she begins to unwind the thick rope from the levers at the ends of the table.

  I start to jerk my arm back, but Elyse shifts forward, eyebrow cocked, a hungry look flashing through her eyes. I force myself to stay still as Francesca wraps the rope around my wrists. Pulls tight.

  Francesca moves to my feet, winding the same coarse rope around my ankles so that I’m tied to the table. She hums while she works, a single clear note that interrupts Angelica’s even chanting.

  “Avertántur retrórsum et confundántur, cogitántes míhi mála . . .”

  I lie very still, afraid that any movement might send the table—and me—crashing to the ground. Francesca gives the ropes at my ankles one final pull to make sure they’re tight enough. And then she reaches for the lever.

  There’s a groan of wood, a creak of rope. Sharp fibers dig into my skin. The bindings at my ankles grow taut.

  “What’s going on?” My voice sounds high and fluttery. “What’re you doing?”

  Francesca’s humming doesn’t falter. She moves to
the lever near my hands.

  I know what’s going to happen. The ropes will pull on my ankles and wrists; my body will stretch. I even move my arms over my head so the pain won’t be so bad, telling myself that it’ll all be over soon. I squeeze my eyes shut when I hear the wood moan. I hold my breath.

  Nothing prepares me for what comes next.

  My arms and legs jerk into line, muscles taut as rubber bands. My spine lifts off the table. I want to cry or scream, but the pressure steals my voice and the only thing I can manage is a sharp gasp, my lips quivering. I suddenly feel foolish for lying so still as she tied me to this table, for doing nothing to get away. But what was there to do? Even now this room feels claustrophobic and boiling, my brain too sluggish to find a way out.

  Finally, Francesca moves away from the lever. I feel a brief flare of relief. One more crank and my body would just rip apart, like a rag doll, nothing more than cotton and fabric and loose stitches.

  Then—

  The pocketknife swipes down my cheek with a flick of Francesca’s wrist, pain like fire lighting through my skin. A sudden slash on my opposite cheek comes next, the movement just as quick. A spasm moves through me like a wave. My body convulses, trying to fold in on itself, but the bindings at my wrists and ankles tighten, holding me in place. I hear a low pop followed by pain flaring in my shoulder.

  “There is so much skin to test.” Francesca holds the bloody knife up to my face. “We will be here all night.”

  I want to curl into a ball. But I can’t cringe or flinch, can’t cover myself with my hands; the ropes are too tight. There’s nothing I can do to protect my body. I release a ragged, defeated sob. My voice doesn’t sound human.

  But it doesn’t matter; I can see now that my plan was flawed. There’s too much skin.

  I pull with my arm, testing the ropes at my wrist to see if there’s still a way to wriggle free. But they’re too tight. My fingers are starting to go numb as the circulation in my arm gets cut off.