by Box Set
The hood still covers my face, but I can make out a dull light and a figure standing in front of me.
If he hasn’t done anything, what the hell is that searing pain ripping through my spine. I whimper involuntarily as the pain hits my head with almost deafening force, bringing with it a roar in my ears as if I’d just been plunged in water. My arms are tied behind my back like large, numb sausages with the weight of my body on them.
Someone jerks me into a sitting position. With a crack, the pain worsens until I feel like I’ll vomit, and then it gradually subsides. My legs drape over the edge of a small cot. I feel the cold concrete floor under my toes, but at the same time I can’t feel it. The sensations are all wrong.
I’ve never wanted to see Jorge more in my life. I’d settle for one of his beatings even.
Although, given the condition of my back, I wouldn’t last long there either.
It takes all my energy to focus on breathing through my nose.
I’m yanked to my feet, but I stumble, falling to my knees with a crack when my legs refuse to hold my weight. My arms sting with the returning blood flow and I clench my teeth, refusing to make a sound.
The man rubs his hands down my arms, obviously aware of my discomfort and using it to his full advantage. Air hisses through my teeth and my toes curl. He laces something through the ropes binding my arms. Something squeaks above me, and then my arms are drawn upward behind me. My shoulders strain at the unnatural position. There is no relief. Nowhere to go. My joints reach their limit, but I’m still pulled upward. I scramble to my feet before my shoulders dislocate, but I feel like I’m standing on two stretched and mangled springs rather than legs. Every part of my body tingles. My muscles ache. And the room dims as lights flash behind my eyes.
With the rope pulled as tight as it will go, and my arms completely immobilized, pulled up behind me at a painfully odd angle, the squeaking above me finally stops.
“Jorge has outdone himself,” the man says. His footsteps circle around me as his hand slides around my hips and ass. “Let’s see what’s under this dress.”
I see him through the hood again—just his outline, standing in front of me, then cold metal presses against my skin between my breasts.
“It would be much simpler to unzip me.” My words sound as if my vocal cords have been through a grinder.
“Not as fun,” he says, slicing through the black fabric down to my navel, and letting the material fall to the floor. He snaps each strap on my bra, then slips his finger through the clasp between my breasts and flicks it, letting it fall as well. The cold metal of the knife under the strap of my thong and yanks, pulling me forward with a quick motion before the blade cuts through the strap. I sway and regain what little balance I have as he cuts the final strap, leaving me standing there naked.
“No trackers?” He reaches between my legs, jamming his fingers abruptly through my folds.
I gasp. Second-nature kicks in and I move quickly, bringing my knee up, but I hit nothing but air.
As the pain sweeps over me and my world tilts, I hear the crisp snap of electricity, just before something connects with my side, and my whole body goes rigid with the current vibrating through my body. My knees give out, leaving my full weight on my shoulders and the rope holding me up. My spine screams in agony.
“You don’t disappoint, Poco Ciervo,” he says, grabbing a fistful of my hair and jerking my head back while I struggle to get my legs under me and working again.
Just as I regain some semblance of balance, he shoves my head sideways, undoing my work. The cold metal presses against my hip again and he drags it around my waist. Behind me again, he grabs my left hand, and I feel his fingers dig into the base of my thumb, feeling for the rice-sized tracker embedded there. With a quick slice, I feel my skin split, just like the black dress as he digs in the knife and twists. I hear something tiny bounce against the floor beneath me.
“We’re going to have plenty of fun together,” he says, pressing his hand to the small of my back.
Olvidado. I try to retreat.
I hear the snap of the taser again and see the flash of light inches from my right cheek. I smell the current, mixed with the tang of blood from my hand.
Olvidado.
“Don’t bother trying to block me out,” he says. “The cocktail running through your veins is enough to keep you from hiding behind that mental wall. You feel it, don’t you?”
The smell of his stale breath seeps through the hood and tangle with the others and the heat of my own breath, creating a thick cloud around me.
“You feel the shift,” he continues in a smooth, lilting tone. “Just as you try to thread the needle, the thread snaps.”
He takes a step back, moving the taser down my body, just inches from my skin. My fine hair stands on end as it passes, then, he dips his hand and catches the tip of my nipple in its current. I scream involuntarily as my body arches.
“Jorge te matará.” Jorge will kill you, I mutter through my clenched teeth.
“You and I both know he doesn’t get his hands dirty,” his voice is low and silky smooth.
He forces his hand between my legs, but as soon as I flinch to resist him, I feel the threat in the raspy arc of electricity inches from my core. I stare up at the light above his head, trying to block him out and his rancid touch, but I feel every moment as his fingers part me, circling first my front hole and then moving further back. I involuntarily squirm, which elicits a chuckle from him. He crouches as his hand sinks deeper between my legs and one finger presses past the tight muscle of my anus.
“Wasn’t it brilliant of Jorge to keep you chaste,” his finger remains inside me while his thumb presses at my other entrance, and he speaks calmly, almost with that seductive tone Jorge instilled in me. “Any man he’s sent you to seduce can find a whore, but your job was to keep something over them. A need they couldn’t shake. But did you believe that was the only purpose?”
I clench my teeth. He’s trying to get to you…
Mierda. I can’t hold on long enough to reason my way out of reacting. I can’t reason my way out of this cell, not when he knows exactly what I am. Even if I could get past the malfunction in my brain, I’m uncertain my limbs and body will obey. I still feel the tingle in my arms and legs and I don’t know if it’s from the shock, the drugs, or the growing discomfort radiating from between my shoulder blades.
This breathless state of uncertainty is foreign. Not since….
Not since the dark.
The taser cracks against my skin again and my body arches. Then, he returns his attention between my legs, flicking my clit.
Olvidado. Olvidado. I repeat the word in my head, trying to keep my breathing even. Begging my mind to turn to white noise and allow me to escape.
He takes my left nipple in his mouth, licking it gently at first before his teeth clamp down, and I swear he must have drawn blood.
Even though the room feels hot an eerie chill invades my body, rattling my already strained muscles.
A hot puff of air hits my stomach, then his tongue invades my belly button, and even though I know it’s useless, I try to recoil from his touch.
“What do you want?” The words slip out.
He straightens and a hand clasps against my jaw, then he presses his lips against mine. The hood may partially obscure my vision, but it does nothing to shield me from his touch or his hot breath. “To watch you crumble.”
4
The cot beneath me shakes as what sounds like an explosion echoes overhead.
I’m still alive.
I can’t fucking move, but I’m still alive.
The room spins. Closing in on me then receding again. Fuck. It’s like those damn rides I’ve only seen on television. At least the hood is gone. No more ropes. But I can see every cut, welt, and bruise marring my skin.
I roll, landing on the hard, concrete floor. It’s not even something I feel. Hell, I’m not sure I can feel my legs at all. I poke one thigh to be sure.
>
Nope.
Maybe.
Are these my hands?
Every sensation seems off. Removed from me like I’m staring down at a body I have no connection to.
Voices and footsteps approach from all around me. From every direction.
The door opens.
“Hay una chica aquí,” a new stranger yells. He waves at someone, “Lucero.”
“Hijo de puta,” the second man says. He also gestures to someone beyond the door, then turns to me, crouching in front of me. “Estás bien?”
I watch his lips move, hear the sounds, but none of it means anything.
“You speak English?” he says. “Français? Russkiy yazyk?”
The rising temperature in my body breaks my trance long enough for me to mutter one word before the room dims. “Olvidado.”
I’m conscious enough to feel them wrap something around me. I feel the wind—the cool, refreshing air—as we move. But where? Where are they taking me?
I don’t care this time.
A door swings on its hinges and a rush of even colder air rushes over me. In an instant I feel like I’m falling.
He dropped me?
No, the freefall lasts too long.
With a shake, I realize I’m still in his arms. I see a mass of blurry figures moving all around us. Then a line of black SUVs comes into view. I jump when, suddenly, another man stands over me, pressing his fingers to my throat. I wait for unconsciousness. Hope for unconsciousness, but his touch is gentle.
Frantic words are exchanged over me in Spanish. Who is she? Something about Serge… Their words are too fast and I’m not lucid enough to keep up in any language.
———
Olvidado. Forgotten.
My safe haven, that mental blank in the back of my mind has become my prison.
Jorge. My Master. I reason that must be where the thread begins, but it isn’t.
Not anymore.
I wake in a soft bed, curled into a nest of sheets and I wonder for a minute if it was all a horrible dream. But as my eyes begin to take in the details of the dim room, I realize it’s anything but familiar.
The last thing I remember clearly is the fight with Jorge.
Why can’t I remember?
Flashes are all I can seem to find. A black material over my head, covering my face. The taser. Hands all over my body—as if touching me to prove I had no choice. Or a promise of what was to come once he was done with the torture. Then, the icy water, pouring down on my head until I couldn’t breathe through the fabric and my body convulses in the oxygen-less cold.
There’s an uncertainty that comes with working for lobos like Jorge. Lone wolves may set their own rules, but eventually, they have to play by someone else’s. Is that what happened?
I roll off the bed to my feet, but my body seems to have other ideas. My back feels like I’ve been stabbed with an icepick, but that isn’t even the worst of it. The blood rushes from my head, leaving me dizzy as my stomach rushes up to take its place.
The door to the room opens, but I hold up my hands, silently pleading. Please don’t come near me. Please don't make a sound.
I can’t form words, nor do I dare to.
God, even the sound of his footsteps crunches in my head as if he’s walking on my bare brain. He retreats for a moment, seems to talk to someone in the hallway, then rejoins me in the bedroom.
God, please, please, I've felt a lot of pain in my life, but nothing as crippling as this. It's as if it has devoured every part of my being.
There's no escape.
I fall to my knees, retching as I fall.
Suddenly, the man's hands are on me, but I'm too busy retching and struggling to hold onto what little reality I have left.
What is this?
My vision flashes bright as my stomach clenches to empty its already empty self. My throat burns. My eyes sting as if my brain wants to melt out of my head. The man kneels next to me, carefully silent in his movements as he pulls my hair back. Hair that I'm sure is coated in vomit. Or stomach acid.
Whatever the hell I can't keep down.
Poison?
He lifts my chin, but my entire body quakes as I wretch again.
I notice another man standing over me. They're both quiet. Watching.
Over and over, I wretch until I don't think I'll ever be able to suck air into my lungs again, and then suddenly it comes with a fury. More pain. God.
I grab the sleeve of the man crouching nearest me, needing something to hold onto as my other fingers and toes dig into the cold stone floor. He steadies me with an arm around my waist.
I can't even resist. What's the point?
God, the pain.
He pulls me up, sitting me back on my heels, then I notice the small white pill in his other hand.
"Open your mouth," he instructs quietly. Even though he whispers, I feel every vibration of the sound and it threatens to throw me into another fit. Whatever it is can't be worse, so I do as I'm told, and he drops the small pill under my tongue where it dissolves into a minty grainy mush. Nothing much changes. I don't dare move, and he doesn't let go.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
I moan. The words still hurt just as much, but I'm not a heaving mess on the floor. I lift my head.
I don’t know his face, and yet I feel like I do. There’s something familiar there. Someone I’d followed for Jorge? No. Not in that life.
His eyes. Dark. Chestnut. I’ve seen them in my sleep. And his smell… a mix of musk and leather.
How long have I been here? The man’s long hair falls down the sides of his face, reaching his bearded jawline.
The man standing nearby hands him another pill, opens a bottle of water and crouches next to us with it extended toward me.
The first man’s arm doesn’t move from my middle, but he offers me the second pill. “A muscle relaxer. It won’t solve the problem, but should help for now.”
It’s like the nerves throughout my body have suddenly decided to process sound waves, detecting every nuance and every motion. And each of those sensations scrapes at me just under my skin. I grab the pill and pop it in the back of my throat, then I take the bottle and take a small, careful drink—still afraid of another wave of vomiting. It’s too much. Too painful.
“Where am I?” I manage the weak words, but detest how they sound. I detest how I feel. This entire situation.
“My house. North of Toronto.”
That did little to answer my question. My house? Big freakin’ deal. “And you are?”
“Galeno. As I’ve told you at least a dozen times.”
A dozen times? What’s wrong with me? I don’t dare ask that one.
“And what’s your name?” he asks.
Doesn’t he know? I squint up at him, then his friend. Not his friend. Employee? I remember him rushing into my prison and carrying me out.
“Olvidado.” I reply. That’s my only reply. I don’t exist. I certainly don’t have an identity.
Galeno makes a sound in his throat. “You’re not one to be forgotten.”
My breath catches in my throat. Not again.
He lifts me off the floor as if I weigh nothing. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I prepare to resist him, but I don’t have it in me. My arms and legs weigh too much for my abused and exhausted muscles to do anything except hang limp while he carries me to an open door not twenty feet away. Then, he looks over his shoulder. “Que Carina limpie esto.” Have Carina clean this up.
By the time we reach the bathroom, the pain in my body is replaced with something else. Similar to that detached feeling, but not quite. He sets me on my feet and I brace myself against the wall, noticing the bandage on my left hand where the tracker had been removed. The back of my hand is also bruised as if an IV had been there at one point. If he’s nursing me back to health, he must have one fucked-up plan in mind.
I pull down the shorts he’d apparently dressed me in and plop onto the toilet.
Taking a piss with him right there watching. He doesn’t even bat an eye, nor blush. I can’t even get a rise. So, I wipe myself off and close the toilet lid—not yet brave enough to see if I could handle the flushing sound without retching again.
But as I stand, my body sways, flinging me into the wall before Galeno grabs me again.
“I’m fine.” My words slur. Muscle relaxers. Fuck.
At least the pain is gone. I think. I can’t even really tell. Galeno leaves me next to the sink, where I can brace myself in the corner between the counter and the wall.
He kicks off his shoes, and I wonder if he’s planning on jumping into the shower too before I notice they’re covered in vomit along with his pants and sleeves.
Strange man. Strange place.
I drop my head against the wall and watch him. He unbuttons the cuffs on his sleeves and rolls them up to his elbows. Then, he takes me by the waist again, lifting the soiled tank over my head and leading me to the giant glass enclosure. I notice at least four shower heads installed, but I collapse immediately onto the seat jutting out of one side.
Galeno pulls one showerhead off its hook and I flinch at the clicking sound as he adjusts something. The droplets of a cool mist peppers my arm as he aims the water against the wall until a warm heat radiates off of it. Then he directs it to the back of my head, working the water through my strands of hair to remove the sticky gunk.
He nudges the outside of my knee for me to turn to the side on the bench, and I move without question. It’s such a strange feeling. Not particularly weak. Not particularly disconnected, but not right either. Although I haven’t been right since the moment I woke up.
No. I haven’t been right since…
I can’t think about that. I turn so that my right side is pressed against the wall of the shower and I feel the warm mist on my back. Galeno gathers my hair, pulling it over my shoulder as he presses a warm cloth to my back.
Fuck. I’m losing my mind.
A man mostly dressed in suit pants and a button-down collar stands over me in the shower. I shouldn’t be letting him touch me, but something inside me is clearly broken—not just my back.
