The Goodbye Girl (Red Market Series Book 2)

by A. Giannoccaro

  The unbound one is young, maybe twelve or thirteen; young organs are worth more money to us. They also last longer and are usually less diseased than some of the others we sell. I lift her chin with my fingers so I can see her. Sweet, innocent eyes stare back at me her chest rattles with tears she holds in for fear of what I will do to her. Whisper white hair hangs in her eyes and her pale skin ripples with goose bumps as she shakes from the cold air in here.

  “There is no ransom, you are never going home and no one will be saving you. You won’t get hurt if you just behave for this part, after this I promise it will be peaceful and painless. You have come here to die so that others can live. Be braver than her.” I point at the girl next to her, tied and gagged.

  I don’t know why but her little girl eyes turn me soft and drown out the manic rage from earlier. I bend down so my face is close to hers and her tears wet my fingers; she is beautiful. She isn’t from the gutter, this is someone’s little girl, a daughter, a child, and now a goodbye. I kiss her sweet innocent little mouth and she just stands still, having given up already. Surrender is so sweet.

  “Goodbye,” I whisper, letting her head fall back down to her chest as I leave them there.

  I will see her again after this when she is still, cold and in the purgatory I have created for them. Not alive but not dead. Just right for me. I feel the grin appear as I imagine what a dead virgin will feel like. Lettie is almost forgotten, as the little blond angel has stolen my thoughts away with her submission. I can understand now why he loved to strip them of the desire to fight; stealing a soul is so fucking rewarding. I snigger and the sound echoes through my new sanctuary. I have found my silent peace but the roar of what I have lost will find me in my bed tonight.

  Svetlana

  She was a magnet for the devils.

  I have been away for days or weeks. Time means nothing as I sit on a dirt floor with my feet and one arm chained up to a hard brick wall of some ghetto hole, in what I can only assume is part of Mexico City. People may think I am just a washed up street-rat, but there are things that you learn from the concrete hell that you can’t get from the black chalkboards of a school. I hear the taxis whisk by outside and people shout at one another in Spanish. Random guns go off every now and again, making me aware that I am in a busy part of existence.

  The devil who took me is no different than the others. His intentions have nothing to do with saving me, though he has told me in terrible broken English how much safer I would be if I trusted him. There is no such thing as trust. When you trust someone, or even a feeling, it makes you blind to the world that wants to kill you. I suppose those are all the cards that I am meant to be dealt, especially when you are birthed from a whore and fall in love with a man that is your father.

  Death; it will forever stick to me, whether it’s by Pavel or Arturo. It’s hell. Hell is me and I am hell.

  I imagine what the streets would look like if I were walking on them now, begging for mercy and spare change for a bite to eat. It’s funny how certain times in your life seem so awful, only to look back on them to realize they weren’t so bad after all. That’s where I’m at. I don’t think there is a way out of this for me. I thought that there were people that cared for me, but that isn’t true as I sit here in my own piss and shit dreaming about the good old days when step-daddy dearest would whore me out for meals while panhandling the streets.

  Dreams. They mean something, right?

  I trace my dirty finger along the dirt of the ground, where the soft grains tickle my senses and awaken me more than I care for. The devil-man hasn’t been in to see me for some time, so I’m anticipating his return soon. His methods of breaking my silence are not what others would deem as appropriate, I’m sure.

  Again, he is proof that there is no such thing as a decent person in this world. He works for the government, as he tells me over and over again, yet he has spent countless hours torturing me to break my silence. My heavy eyes continue to stare at the brown dirt on the ground as it depicts a mirage of horror in my mind, making me aware that I am living yet another chapter of worthless, dirty Svetlana.

  The devil-man that periodically greets me looks at me with a stare that is all too familiar. I can sense the same kind of feelings in him that Pavel had. They share similar traits, one being manipulation. It won’t work on me though, mostly because it doesn’t matter. I am here and they are off living their lives normally. I was nothing to them besides a charity fuck, a way for them to say sorry to a past that they couldn’t ever get rid of.

  The pungency in the air makes me sick, but it is my normal. It brings me back to the days when I would rush through the subway tunnel to straddle one of the empty white five-gallon buckets to relieve my aching stomach before I was forced to let a man powerfully fuck my ass. I’d make myself do that to ensure I wouldn’t shit all over him. I remember learning the hard way once as my tiny hips were grasped from behind while my asshole was torn. My bowels couldn’t handle the thrusts, and I shit all over him. I was beaten twice that night; once by him and the other time by Pavel. I was sure I would have met my death then, but I clung on for a useless reason still unbeknownst to me.

  Now, I’m not enduring that same kind of hell, rather a different one where I have to remember the kind of life I was in before was better than what I am living now, because I am remembering all that I lost.

  Myself, the city I called home, and the two men I loved.

  Instead, I am required to be faced with a man whose intentions are less than wholehearted. He thinks that water-boarding or secluding my senses for days will snap my will, but he clearly doesn’t know what kind of life I have lived. Even still, I am silent, but I feel it getting harder and harder with each second that I am able to count.

  I know, as each inconsequential day passes, that I am simply one step closer to death. I have considered many things to push that hellacious man over the edge, one being revealing the truth, but even with the facts revealed, I fear how I will feel.

  I worry, even during the admission that I so desperately crave, I will want to fight even though it is wrong. I worry that I will think back to the brutal man that loves me for all the wrong reasons, because we fought to save one another, and that isn’t something I want to do anymore. Not when I have been fighting my entire life.

  It’s been a long time since I have had food and water; my throat is disturbingly dry. My mouth is getting stuck together as dehydration sinks in, and next time I have to urinate I have contemplated pissing into my free hand to drink it. My world couldn’t get any worse.

  Or so I thought.

  The four brick walls I stare at are getting smaller every day, suffocating me and making me aware that I am stuck. I know that I am near a street because of the ruckus I constantly hear, but there isn’t anything I can physically see. Screaming would be a moot point and only put me in more danger, throwing me to another set of devils, so I stay quiet as the demons from my past haunt me and push me closer to the brink of insanity.

  The taste of the air digs itself into the crevices of my brain, making me try to forget the taste of the dust that wafts into the air every time I move. I try to make myself believe that I am eating bread and drinking water as the grains from the dirty ground rub uncomfortably against my gums, making my teeth hurt.

  I hear the jingling of keys on the other side of, what I think, is a door. It’s down a small hall and past where I cannot see. My heart speeds up in my chest and my toes tingle as adrenaline and anxiety settles in, making my body aware that it needs to be on its best behavior. I can’t promise myself that I won’t act out like I did one time before, growling at that devil-man with every ounce of anger that I had. I try to swallow, a nervous habit that I have taken up since being in this shit-hole, pun totally intended, but my mouth is too dry as the dirt clings onto my gums like a magnet to metal.

  The man that stole me away from the only kind of goodness that I have ever known is near. I can smell him, hear him, and taste him in
the air. The thick smell of tequila dances around greatly, making my empty stomach sick while begging for something, even a two-day old molded burger from a dumpster, to eat to make that aroma disappear. My ears ring and listen to his steps, the rhythm going to and fro in short heavy strides across the dirt. My dry tongue can taste the sweat that is pouring off of his forehead and settling on his brown, wrinkled skin as the salt assaults my taste buds and weakens my once-hungry stomach.

  I want to close my eyes and tell myself that this is all a bad dream that I am living in, but if that were the case, I would never wake up. I close my eyes and remember better times, ones of dollies that I shared with my lover and salvations in the shower with my forbidden devotee. It’s glorious torture to still be able to remember what their lips tasted like, and for a moment, my thoughts are sinister as I contemplate pleasuring myself as insanity shrivels itself around me, threatening the last bit of rationality that I have.

  “Estás lista para hablar conmigo bonita.” I can’t bring myself to open my eyes to be greeted by the devil-man. He has a name, but I refuse to acknowledge it because that means understanding he is a real person.

  His voice makes me nauseous. I want to tell him that he isn’t rolling his ‘r’s properly, but my words will give him the satisfaction that he seeks. I am not ready to claim rout yet. His shadow that once lurked in the depths comes out, making his presence known and my realities true. Something about today seems like it isn’t going to end well, but I can’t say to trust that feeling because that is the sentiment I have felt most of my life. It’s been made up of a domino effect of unfortunate events.

  My body deceives me as I open my eyes to stare at the devil-man in front of me. His thick mustache is longer than what it was days before straggling over his full lips. He’s puffing on a cigarette and drinking his trademark tequila. It’s stronger in the air today than it typically is. He’s going to be feisty, I can feel it. The only thing I have come to trust over the years is my feelings. It’s the only relationship throughout my disgusting existence that I have come to have faith in.

  “Tu hablas hoy, niña.”

  His voice makes me shudder as I stare into his black eyes. He has wicked things on his mind, I can tell. I have been exposed to men like him before, but it’s at this moment in time that I have to come to a conclusion. Do I become feral and make my lover proud, the one that I can only hope is looking for me? Does Mateo miss me? Part of me hopes that he is falling down a tunnel of insanity without me, his only voice or touch of reason, but part of my heart can’t be sure. I shouldn’t still want Caesar, but a sliver of my heart will always belong to him. Fuck, who am I kidding, part of my heart is his, literally.

  The devil-man stands before me, taking one last puff of his cigarette and tossing it onto the dirt as the smoke rises from the ground, creating an ominous sign of what I am sure is to come. He wants me to trust him, but there is no way that I ever will. I continue to think about my options, one is to remain silent, or two is to reveal the truth to make him crazy. If I make him crazy, that will give me the will to fight back.

  Maybe that is what I was born to do; battle against all the beasts of the world.

  He takes another step toward me, cocking his head to the side like he, too, is weighing his options. I stare deeper at his mouth, certain that I can see a small smile grace his face. I’ve made my decision as the same feelings enter me that did the day I lost my shit on Mateo with those fucking jars of dolly hair.

  I abruptly stand, letting my lips move over my teeth to show him that I am able to kill him with the feelings that consume me. It’s ironic how one can go from one feeling to a completely different one within seconds. I take a step, the weakness in my knees is soon forgotten, and the chains tighten against the brick wall. A hiss escapes my mouth like I am a wild feline desperate for meat. The same reverberation leaves my lips and I can’t say I appreciate the look of satisfaction on the devil-man’s face. It leaves me uncomfortable, but I don’t know what else I expected.

  “You full of fire today, bonita.”

  Burn. You will burn in the fire, girl. Horrendous reminders play around my tormented mind and make me witness to how I clung on, again, for a reason unknown to me. My pussy aches as I recall the horrible pain from Pavel and the abuse I sustained, still that is worse knowing I hung onto a life that has no meaning, but it must! It must mean something, anything, and I can only hope that my meaning is on the other side of this shit-hole.

  The maddened man that helped me understand was dysfunctional love was may be my purpose. I can only hope that I am his, too. Mateo, where are you? Caesar, why did you leave me?

  I wish that my mouth had enough spit in it to haul it into his face, but my mouth is too dry. My legs are restrained, so kicking him is out of the question. All that I have to rely on now is my mind, the crazy that comes and goes and gives me the strength to carry; the very strength that I am still trying to understand.

  I try hissing at him again, but the hiss turns into a growl. I whip my head back and forth, wishing that I could find something to sink my teeth into to relieve this pressure of insanity. I close my eyes and let myself smile, knowing that I need to find my happy place one more time before I subject myself to treatment that will be enough to break a strong little lamb like me.

  I see the face of my now-lover, Mateo, his ruggedly handsome looks and strong hands dance over my skin in glorious torment, loving me like he hasn’t ever loved another before. I think about the horror that he has etched on his skin, tales of beauty and tragedy, mistrust and murder, and my pussy goes wet as I float on to a neverland of what was.

  I feel my roughened hand tickle the exposed flesh of my belly, my torn and tattered shirt leaving my skin exposed and at the mercy of my memories while I embrace the vicious tango of then and now. My blackened thoughts are replaced with vividly colorful ones. The trace of my rough fingertips disguised as my forbidden lover, Caesar's.

  I feel trapped between who I loved and who I love, and the torment is perfection and the only place I wish to be. I feel my hand dip down into my pants, beneath my urine soaked slacks, and I begin to touch myself in the manner that they would. I am not gentle. There is no such thing as soft when you are a dirty whore like me. I growl and moan out loud, feeling my pussy hug my fingers as the graciousness that has been shown to me acts out behind my closed lids in the most desirable fashion; haunting me with illicit desire and taunting me with what I lost.

  I’m so close to a release.

  A hard fist hits my face and my fingers leave me. My eyes are forced open as my knees buckle and I fall to the ground, staring up to the monster towering high above me. My eyes water from a bodily response and I feel a wetness pool underneath me. A thick stench of urine fills my nose, another response that my body has endured.

  “Puta! What you do?” the devil-man berates me.

  I laugh out loud, pushing my chest out and turning my head over to the side as I further embrace the act of losing my mind. It’s the only way I know how to survive.

  “Sick. Sick like them!” he screams, slapping me across the face.

  He takes my dirty matted hair into his hands, pushing it down into the once-dirt, now mud thanks to my piss, caking it over the side of my face.

  “How you know that man?!” he yells at me again.

  “You tell me now, perra! Now!” he screams, the whites of his eyes turning black.

  I’m sure he is turning into a devil in the flesh as he screams at me, demanding to know the truth. You know what they say? The truth will set you free. Freedom is what I wish for, in the arms of my lover while holding onto memories of my forbidden one.

  I smile, intent and manipulation dancing around in my mind. I learned from the best.

  “These men that you speak of, you say their names are Mateo and Caesar?” I ask, surprised at how sane I sound.

  His breathing slows as he lets go of my hair. I sit up on my elbows, staring at his face as his nostrils flare with utter abhorren
ce.

  “Si,” his answer is simple, yet full of yearning. Yearning for the truth.

  I laugh again, allowing the madness to course through my veins.

  “How you say, familia, devil-man? Familia! Mi familia!” I shout to the rooftops, proud of my admission.

  The devil-man clenches his jaw with disgust, taking a step back as he shakes his head no. I let my hands touch my breast through my dirty shirt, cupping it firmly just as they would while I thrust my hips into the air. I laugh again, shouting louder, “Mi familia! Mi familia!”

  The devil-man bends down to his ankle, pulling up his khaki pant leg to show me a long hunting knife strapped to it. He withdraws it from its holster and steps closer to me as the blade shines beautifully in the most fucked up way. I smile again.

  Welcome to the dog fight, devil. The lamb has officially turned into a lion and is ready for blood.

  Arturo

  Peeling away the grime, one layer at a time.

  Just when I think I am capable of clinging on to decency, the shards of words roll off her tongue and pang me with despair. Mi familia. I had a family once. A little girl who used to be happy and full of life, but somewhere along the way, I lost her. Part of my mind went with Fatima when she fell into the dark ways of the streets, but as I watched her from afar like a silent protector, I felt like that was the only way that I could exist. I lost her. I lost who I was and what I believed in. I’m not even sure what I believe in anymore.

  Last moments of my Fatima haunt me, making me teeter between the current and past times. My brain zaps to the whore of a girl before me who I used to have empathy for. Indignation fills me, alighting anger and filling the void that I wasn’t sure ever could be whole again. I grind my teeth together, unsure of my next movements. I want a swig of tequila and a smoke, because something in my hands tells me that my next acts will leave me winded and left with little energy.