Prisoned Series Box Set

by Marni Mann

  “O-oh my G-God.”

  There it was.

  The three words she had spoken meant nothing to me. It was the sounds she had made. It was the quivering of her lips that had nothing to do with the drugs. It was the fear that had filled her eyes.

  I’d been waiting for desperation. I’d finally seen it, heard it. Hell, I’d even felt it.

  “Arin, I’m not going to ask you again. What are you willing to do to get back home?”

  It took her several seconds to respond, “Wh-whatever you ne-need me to.”

  “I’m going to bring you up to the third floor and let you get some sleep. In the morning, once everything is out of your system, I’ll tell you what I want from you.”

  “O-okay, but, Huck?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think I-I can make it up the st-stairs.”

  When I shot my arm underneath her knees and another across her back, she screamed. The sound fucking killed me, and I immediately pulled away.

  She clenched my hand and stopped me from going anywhere. “Just try and b-be gentle. I’m sorry. I-I hurt. Everywhere.”

  She wanted gentle. She wanted a place to stay. She wanted a way to earn money.

  She was already giving me a fucking headache.

  I used the same amount of strength, but I moved slower, lifting her into the air and pulling her against my chest. As I got us into the hallway, she rested her head into my neck.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The knife was back. This time, it jabbed into my right tonsil.

  She felt so tiny in my arms, and I wondered when she had last eaten. One thing I knew for sure was that the girl needed a bath. I could smell the piss on her jeans and the dirt in her hair.

  I felt her body relax as soon as I began to climb the stairs.

  Once we were inside my apartment, I took her into the guest bathroom and set her on top of the toilet. I turned on the water to fill the tub.

  “Lawan will be up in a few minutes. She’ll get you whatever you need.”

  “Y-you’re not st-staying?”

  “You’re about to strip your clothes off and get inside that bath. If you want an audience, I’ll gladly stick around and watch.”

  In this light, I could really see the gashes and bruises, and the marks showed me they’d hit her with an open fist and a closed one. Her long dark hair was matted with blood. That wasn’t the way I preferred my women, but I wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to see a beautiful pair of tits. I had a feeling hers would be worth staring at.

  She shook her head, her body rocking over the toilet seat. “Then, wh-where are y-you going?”

  She’d been through some shit, and that was the only reason I’d tolerate her questions.

  I just wouldn’t tolerate them for long.

  “Lawan will tell you how to get in touch with her. Do not come searching for either of us. Do not ask her about me. Do not ask her anything unless it’s something you need. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  Blood from her big toe dripped onto the floor. She noticed it the same time I did.

  I went to the door and held it in my hand, taking one last glance at her. “Welcome to Bangkok, Arin.”

  Not waiting for her reply, I shut her inside the bathroom, and I unlocked my office, taking a seat at the desk. Then, I reached inside the drawer for the bottle I’d been keeping in there for the last several months.

  That was the amount of time that had passed since I purchased any girls. Since I decided I wouldn’t buy any more.

  Since I realized I couldn’t.

  Five

  Arin

  Oh God.

  My eyes quickly darted around the room and landed on the wastebasket by the sink. I leaned out of the tub, clenched my fingers around the rim of the trash can, and dragged it over. Water sloshed everywhere as I dropped my face into the opening and vomited mouthfuls of bile. Pure acid continued to shoot through my lips, stinging my esophagus, turning the white plastic completely yellow.

  “Oh, Arin,” a woman said as she opened the bathroom door, rushing to the cabinet. “Let me get you a washcloth.”

  I heaved again, still not feeling any relief and too sick to care that I was naked and this stranger could see my bare, beaten body.

  My throat felt like a book of lit matches had been pressed against it. My nostrils stung so badly, I swore blood dripped from them. And, with the pain from my bruised ribs shooting around to my back, I couldn’t take another hurl. It hurt too much. Somehow, I needed to calm my stomach. So, I swallowed some air and pushed myself deeper into the water, resting my shoulders against the cool tiles, and I thought about home.

  Not the throbbing, not the nausea.

  But home.

  “Here, Arin,” the woman said, setting a cold washcloth over my forehead. “That should make you feel better.”

  I looked past the icy fabric that hung over the tops of my eyes, and I watched her pick up my heap of bloody clothes. It had hurt so much to take those off. My shirt had stuck to the oozing cuts, and my jeans had squeezed the bruises. I had screamed the entire time, and I was sure that had caused my stomach to hurt even worse.

  The lady threw the clothes outside the bathroom door and immediately closed it.

  “W-who are y-you?” I asked when she faced me again, unable to stop my teeth from chattering.

  If I had the energy, I would have draped my hands over my chest and crossed my legs. But every ounce I’d had was spent running to Huck and falling on the ground outside his back door.

  “I’m Lawan. I found you outside. Remember?” She held another cloth in her hand, and she coated it with soap.

  “What are y-you going to do with th-that?” I lifted my finger to point toward the cloth.

  She held it right above my arm and slowly lowered the washcloth until it rested on my skin. “I’m going to clean you.” She moved it in a circular motion, and when our eyes caught again, she said, “I have three daughters. I’ve worked at this brothel for five years. Don’t worry; I’ve seen it all.”

  I wondered about the different things she had seen. I got the sense they had been far worse than the way I looked. Still, I was curious about what Huck had told her, what he’d ordered her to do.

  Remembering his words kept me from asking.

  “Do not ask her about me. Do not ask her anything unless it’s something you need.”

  “Welcome to Bangkok.”

  “Just relax,” she said. “I won’t hurt you. I’m only going to take care of you.”

  She had motherly eyes. The kind I missed. The kind that looked at you to find something wrong, so she could fix it.

  There were lots of things wrong.

  But none that she could fix.

  “They gave you some drugs.” She placed the cloth on my other arm and gently ran it up to my shoulder and down to my wrist. It skimmed across each knuckle, my nails, even my palm. “A good sleep, and they’ll be out of you.”

  The drugs had been put in my drink. It was the reason my belly was queasy, why I couldn’t stop shivering. Why the details of that whole night weren’t crisp.

  What the hell did he give me?

  “After I get you washed, would you like to eat?”

  Her question made my stomach churn even harder.

  I shook my head but felt the need to clarify in case she didn’t offer it again. “Maybe after I sleep, if that’s okay?”

  The last time any food had been in my mouth was the night I went to the restaurant in Mumbai. I wondered how long ago that was. By the length of the stubble on my legs, it had to have been at least a few days.

  I quivered. This time, it wasn’t from the drugs.

  “Of course,” she answered.

  She reached for the cup sitting next to the sink, dipped it into the water, and carefully dumped it over my hair. When my locks were wet enough, she lathered them in shampoo and rinsed it out, and then she covered them with conditioner.

  “Muc
h better,” she said, wringing the strands that now felt so soft against my skin. “Lots of dirt. Look.” She pointed at the little specks that floated on top of the water. Then, she got a new cloth and began to scrub my face.

  The grime was like a reflection, showing me how disgusting I was. I felt even worse on the inside. I couldn’t remember a time when I had ever felt this sick, this weak, this vulnerable.

  But Lawan had told me she wasn’t going to hurt me, that she would only take care of me.

  I believed her, and I wasn’t sure why.

  So, when she drained the water and helped me stand, wrapping a towel over my hair and another around my body, I knew she would then take me to a bed.

  And she did.

  The bedroom was directly across the hall. It was a simple queen-size with a frame. No headboard, no fancy comforter like mine at home. Still, it looked so cozy with the white blanket and feather pillows.

  Lawan had me sit on the end of the mattress, and then she went into the bathroom again.

  Next to me was a pair of cotton shorts and a T-shirt. They appeared a few sizes too big, and I was sure that was so they wouldn’t press into my bruises or rub over my cuts.

  I dropped the towel and lifted the shorts, sticking my foot through the right opening. I was just getting it past my second ankle when she walked back in.

  “Lotion?” She held the bottle up, so I could see it.

  I glanced down at my navel. A purplish mark the size of my hand stretched across the side of my stomach. There was a similar one on my hip and bite marks across the tops of my breasts.

  I ground my teeth together, breathing out of my nose, trying to find the calm.

  “I think it’ll hurt too much,” I said.

  She knelt in front of me and helped shimmy the shorts up to my waist. Then, she opened the T-shirt and slid it over my head. I held her arm to stand, and she brought me to the head of the bed. I crawled inside, feeling the blanket tuck over me and the pillows fluff underneath my wet hair.

  “If you need me, hit number two.” She placed a cell phone on the nightstand and waited for me to nod. “Need anything now?”

  She had already done so much and had been so nice.

  So much nicer than Huck.

  Now, all I had were questions—about him, about this place.

  About the pieces I was unable to put together.

  I still knew better than to ask.

  I’d made it out of the alley. I’d been given a place to stay. I had a woman taking care of me. I didn’t want to do anything that would put me on the street.

  “No, I’m okay,” I replied. “Thank you for your kindness. I didn’t expect it, but I appreciate it.”

  She pressed her hands together, holding them close to her face, and she bowed her head. Then, she turned off the light and closed the door.

  The room was mostly dark. There wasn’t a TV. There was only a nightstand, lamp, and a picture on the wall of a man holding a snake. The snake was wrapped around his neck, the head on one shoulder and the tail on the other. It was framed and hung between the two windows where I could hear the street below. The snake reminded me of the one on Huck’s hands. Heads were tattooed on the backs of his palms, and I was pretty sure I saw hints of a tail inked on his neck.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a tattoo like that.

  Good God.

  I closed my eyes and kept my body perfectly still. If I didn’t move, maybe I wouldn’t hurt as much. And, maybe if the pain lightened just a little, I’d be able to fall asleep.

  Maybe I’d dream of home.

  Or maybe this was all a dream.

  At least it felt that way with my mind this fuzzy.

  But then I heard Huck’s voice inside my head, and I was reminded of everything that had happened from the moment I got thrown on the dock.

  I looked at the picture on the wall again.

  In a room full of almost nothing, it was everything I needed.

  This definitely wasn’t a dream.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  And I finally let myself relax.

  Welcome to Bangkok.

  Six

  The Kid

  Before

  After I sent you my letter, I didn’t expect to hear from you for a while. At least not for a few months. Maybe not ever. But, still, I checked the mail every day, hoping there would be something from you. I’ve got to say, I was really surprised when your reply came so soon. I told myself it’s because you want to get to know me and you want me to know you and that it has nothing to do with you being bored in prison.

  If I’m wrong, don’t tell me.

  Your words are the only things I have of yours. Thank you for giving them to me. I’ve read them a bunch of times, trying to see beyond the pages, trying to get a feel for the things you didn’t say. One thing I noticed from the slant of your writing is that you’re a leftie, like me. But what we don’t share is your love for blood. Animal, human—none of it does anything for me. I have no urge to kill or torture, and I got that from my mother. I’m guessing these are things you already know.

  But did you ever think your honesty would scare me off? That you wouldn’t get a reply from me at all? Just so you know, nothing you tell me will make me stop writing you. I asked for this. I’ve prepared myself to hear it. And, now, I want to hear more.

  What happened after Carol?

  Or should I say, who was next?

  Seven

  Shank

  Before

  I set the kid’s letter on the floor next to me and grabbed a pen and the stack of paper. I had nowhere to keep them—no desk, no shelves—so they sat on the dirt beside my bed of blankets. Since my first letter, I’d stocked up on writing supplies just in case the kid wrote back. There wasn’t a place to buy things in here. If you wanted something, you had to trade with the guys who were connected. The inmate four cells down was one of those men. Three fucks were all he charged me.

  Only three was more like it.

  I couldn’t let him—or anyone else in this place—know how much I liked cock and that I preferred it to cunt. If they knew the truth, I’d be a target, and being American in a prison full of Venezuelans already put a bull’s-eye on my back. So, when he’d fucked me, my grunts had been full of pain, and I’d hidden my handful of cum by swallowing it.

  He was good.

  Better than fucking good actually. I’d trade with him anytime, and I would again once I figured out what else I could get from him.

  In the meantime, the kid had asked for more.

  It was time to tell him about my playground.

  So, I held the pen in my hand, and I began to write.

  Killing Carol didn’t satisfy my urge to murder. Her blood only fueled it. That sticky, hot red substance was all I thought about. All I craved.

  It consumed me in the worst way because I couldn’t have it as often as I wanted.

  You see, my needs weren’t like an alcoholic’s where I could go to a liquor store to get my fix or a sex addict’s where I could find some slut to bang in an alley. My desires came with consequences. Serious ones. Ones that could give me a sentence far worse than the one I was currently serving. Therefore, I had to be extremely careful.

  So, once a year, I would go hunting.

  My father and I would spend months researching locations, never returning to the same place twice. We’d choose countries where crime wasn’t monitored the way it was in America. We’d pick a motel at least an hour from the airport, and we always reserved three rooms. We worked in the middle one, so the room on either side was empty and would block our sound. We’d stay four days and then return back home.

  How did we find the victim?

  It required patience. Observation. We would take in our surroundings, memorize them, process all the details to find the perfect prey. It was like being in the woods, holding a loaded rifle in your hands, waiting for the right deer to come your way. The person we eventually picked didn’t
have a car or a phone. They would be pushing their belongings in a cart. They wouldn’t be missed, wouldn’t be looked for.

  One less person on the street.

  One more person for me to play with.

  We’d prep the room in plastic, and everything would be covered. Tools would be purchased at multiple stores in the towns between the airport and motel. I brought a syringe with me from the States, a vile of insulin that had been replaced with opioids, and I wore a diabetic bracelet when I flew.

  Once we got the victim into the motel, it was time to have fun.

  My father never participated, never played one of my games. Never tore through flesh or coated himself in blood. Instead, he would keep an eye on the door and on the parking lot out front. He would make sure things didn’t get too loud. And he’d ensure not even a fingerprint or a footprint was left behind.

  When I was finished torturing the bastard, I would use a slicing disk to chop the muscles and skin into pieces the size of ice cubes. Then, with my angle grinder, the bones would be disintegrated into dust, and I’d load it all into bags.

  Only the pool of blood would remain. I would stare at it with a dick that had been achingly hard for hours. From the moment my knife had first pierced the victim’s flesh, my cum had been begging to be released.

  I wouldn’t give in.

  The waiting part, the buildup, the tease—it was all foreplay.

  When my cock couldn’t take a second more, my father would go into one of the other motel rooms, and I would dip two of my fingers into the blood. Three was almost the width of a palm, and that would have felt too good. So, I would take the two and use them like a paintbrush, covering my cock in red. I’d start with one layer and wait for it to dry. Pre-cum would leak from my tip. I would mentally force the rest to stay in there, and I’d apply a second coat. Sometimes, a third, depending on how thick or clotted it was. When I was pleased with the color, I’d wrap my entire hand around my cock and squeeze. I’d hold it with as much strength as I had, circling the tip with my thumb. Circling, circling, circling. Breathing. Gazing at the small hole, at the beads of liquid that had formed. They would mix with the blood and turn my skin pink.