by John Hunt
He grunted above her. She tasted blood in her mouth. A back tooth wiggled in the gum. Her breast hurt and there was dampness there, slick on her stomach. A slapping sound with every thrust. Was he sweating on her? The bed springs creaked. He buried his head in the pillow above her shoulder and kept going. He must have kept hitting her after the first punch. She must have blacked out. It didn’t worry her. It had happened before. Her breast hurt. What did he do to it? Her vision cleared. She could see the lights, recessed in the ceiling behind unbreakable plastic. A collection of dead flies pooled on the bottom.
A vein jumped in his neck, next to her cheek. She clenched her legs around him. He moaned, surprised. She ran her hands through his hair. He tried to lift his head but she held it down, firmly and he responded by moving faster and moaning some more. She focussed on the vein in his neck, pulsing under his skin, jumping fast. She put her mouth on the vein and he paused, maybe sensing the danger. She bit into his neck. Ground her teeth together until they met. He screamed and tried to stand but the bed made it awkward for him to get his feet under him and all he could manage was to get to his knees with his butt on his heels. Intwined upright, she locked her legs around him and squeezed his head to her as she ground her teeth into his skin. Blood spurted into her mouth and jetted down her throat. She gagged but didn’t release her hold on him. She held his head to her shoulder, keeping him close with her arms. Her legs tightened on him. He jerked up but still she clung to him. Warm blood, almost hot, ran between them.
“Fucking bitch!” He growled.
He snaked his arms in between them and Olivia could feel his hands on her stomach moving up to her chest. He pushed with his hands and pulled with his back. She strained to hold him. To let go meant her death. She could feel them separating despite her straining to hold them together, her muscles tight with tension. His hands slid along her skin, slick from the blood. She couldn’t hold him much longer. With a tremendous heave, he pushed her down. His strength pulled her hands from his head and he reared back with a wet, slipping sound. Her teeth still gripped a chunk of his neck and when he reeled back, the flap of skin stayed with her. The wound pulsed an arc of blood across the room. It splashed on the pink tile of the shower.
His mouth opened in an ‘O’, his eyes bulged and for a satisfying second of time, she saw panic in them. Honest to God, gonna shit himself type of panic. With a mouthful of his meat, a blood bib on her chest, she smiled and spat the excised meat on the pillow.
He clamped his left hand to his neck and made ready to step off the bed until he saw her smile. He turned back and struck with a hammer fist. Used to his rages, she saw it coming and raised a forearm to block it. His fist crashed through her hand and bent her left index finger back. She heard it crack before the pain hit her and his fist sank into her stomach. The air whooshed out of her and she curled into a ball, holding her injured hand against her chest as she gasped. He lifted his arm to strike her again and he weaved drunkenly, eyes rolling up into his head before he could bring them to focus. He grunted, stumbled and almost fell on the floor. Blood covered the left side of his body, all the way down to his feet. He staggered, righted himself and took tentative steps to his clothes. His chest heaved and his legs shook, like a toddler taking his first steps. To Olivia, he looked drunk. The hole she excised from his neck was too big and he couldn’t stop the blood running out. It seemed incredible to her that he might die here. She hadn’t thought he could die although she hoped for it with all her heart on many occasions. To see him stumbling, then going down to a knee, his hand falling from his wound, a gush of blood hitting her dresser, she stepped from the bed, her tingling finger forgotten. He swayed on one knee and then fell flat to the floor, his head striking the concrete. It made a thunk sound, like dropping a coconut on the floor. The room was suffused with the scent of blood, coppery and cloying. Olivia crept closer. Was he dead? Could she dare to hope?
She cradled her injured hand against her stomach and moved closer. Small spurts of blood drooled from his neck wound. His socks remained startlingly white considering all the blood. She edged closer to him on her tiptoes afraid she might wake him. Did a finger twitch? She couldn’t see the rise and fall of his back. Was he still breathing? She nudged him with her toe. He groaned and she jumped back. Takes a fuck of a long time for someone to die. He didn’t move. His flesh so white and porcine. Spattered in blood with white socks, inert on the concrete floor lying in a spreading pool of blood, he didn’t look real and none of this seemed real until the blood touched her toes. Warm and then cool. So quick to lose its warmth.
The blood oozed out and then stopped altogether. Fucker must be dead. She felt numb, dazed. Everything took on great detail. She could see the pores in his shoulder and the individual hairs sticking up. His sagging middle aged ass appeared sunken and for once in her miserable time spent here, she didn’t feel afraid of him. Because he was dead! Disgusting piece of shit! Rapist! Torturer! How she hated him! She hit him with her healthy hand, punched him right in the back and the impact sent ripples through his flesh. She stood and stomped on his head. She hated him and thought hate such an inadequate word for what she felt for him. There was no word to describe the depths of her abhorrence for him. She wanted to crush his head into the ground. She hauled her foot back, aiming for his head and she connected alright and it bent her toes back and stretched the tendons running along the top of her foot. Her other foot slipped in the blood and she fell back, putting her hands out and her injured finger struck the floor with her hand and the pain was like lightning under her skin and she yelped and cursed under her breath.
She crawled out of his blood, eyes blinded with tears and wondering if she could have fucked that up even more. Now her foot and hand ached and she was sitting in a room with a cooling corpse. Still stuck right where she was before and suffering new injuries she caused. While the pain receded from sharp stabs to an ebbing pulse, she glanced around her prison. So much blood! Glaring contrast of dark red and bright pink. Some of the blood appeared black. She stood, struggling to get her feet under her and wavered above the dead man. Naked, she felt vulnerable. She limped to the dresser and struggled into underwear and wincing, pulled a tank top over her head. At the closet she selected the two items of clothing they allowed her. Track pants and a sweatshirt. No strings in any of them. If they wanted her in something nice, they brought it with them and waited for her to put it on under their salacious gazes. The Gorilla man would rub a hand along his crotch, watching her. How she fucking hated him, both of them! Once dressed she noticed the salty taste of blood in her mouth. Knowing it was his blood almost made her gag. She wanted nothing of him on her or near her. He revolted her.
She hurried to the sink and sucked back water, swishing it around trying to keep the nagging thought of what the Jackal would do to her if he returned at that moment to find his companion dead on the floor. Everything had been bolted down, no weapons for her in here to help her. She was stuck here and her hands palsied as she tried to wipe the blood off around her mouth. The thought of the Jackal returning quivered her stomach. She had to get out of here before he returned! How to do that now when she couldn’t do it before?
The key! When the Gorilla came in to her room, she watched him put the key to her prison in his pocket! That’s what he always did! She gasped seeing his pants in a neat pile on the dresser. She could get out of here. And with some luck, and by God it would be about time she had some, she could get out of here before the Jackal returned!
Leaving the faucet running, she hobbled to where he had folded his clothes, her foot throbbing with every step. She tossed the clothes on the floor in her scramble to get his pants. She saw him put the key in his pocket, she knew it, yet still, a nagging fear persisted. What if it wasn’t there? After all this time, escape couldn’t be this close could it? She felt the hard outline of the keys through the pocket and her heart tugged at the
arteries in her chest. She dug her hand inside and pulled them out. She held them up to her blurring eyes, peripherally aware of her missing middle finger from the middle knuckle up. She used her thumb and ring finger to hold the keys. They had taken her index finger too, from the same right hand. The smooth pink end grotesque to her. Her lip quivered. They had taken so much from her. She inhaled and pushed down the sadness. Time to get out of here. She stepped over Gorilla man, fumbling through the keys, her concentration down to a narrow point. A handful of keys on the ring. Which would open the door? She tried, three, four, no luck. Was the Jackal pulling in the driveway right now while she stood here messing with keys? A key slipped in and turned. She exhaled a deep breath and it shuddered in her breast. She pulled the door open. For the first time in five years, she left her prison.
. . .
Wooden stairs in front of her led up to another door. A hallway extended to her left and right. Narrow, the hallway walls were painted white with a dim bulb in the ceiling. There were three doors on her left and one to the right. Heavy metal doors, painted pink, just like her room. Were there more women like her down here? Toys for the demented? How is this even possible? She should go. Right now. Get help and return. It’d be the smart thing to do. She wasn’t equipped for a rescue mission. She took a step towards the wooden stairs and paused, her foot in the air. But then, what if the Jackal returned in her absence and decided to get rid of the rest of them? Could she live with herself knowing she could have saved them? The rooms were probably empty though. How many people could you abduct and not be found out? Maybe they were just supply rooms and she should get the fuck out of here while she still could. Lying to herself again. The rooms weren’t empty and she knew it. There were others like her, abused and tortured waiting for an escape that might never come. Olivia had to do something. Either way, she should at least check. She held up the key ring and they jingled before her eyes. Lot of keys here. She moved to the door on the right, listening intently for any sound of movement from upstairs. What would she do if she heard a front door open and heavy treads on the boards above? Probably have a fucking heart attack, that’s what. Whatever happened, there was no way she was going back into that room. No goddamned way in hell.
The key slipped in on the first try. She pushed the door open and faced a room identical to the one she’d left. A young woman sat on the bed, clad in track pants and a sweatshirt, like the ones she wore. Probably got a deal in bulk, the sick fuckers. She pictured them pushing a cart around Costco, wearing their masks, holding up clothing and nodding as they tossed it in the cart.
The girl hugged her knees, terrified eyes peering out through strands of hair. Olivia thought she could be looking in a mirror. She resembled her so much except, after a quick glance, Olivia noticed the woman wasn’t missing any fingers or toes. The girl, lifted her head with raised eyebrows, confusion and hope warring in her eyes.
Olivia said, “Let’s get out of here. We gotta go.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone like you. Someone who wants to get the fuck out of here!”
The girl bounced off the bed and reached Olivia in an instant. She appeared healthy and strong and Olivia thought she must be a new addition here. She didn’t have that worn down look.
Olivia said, “There are more doors. This way.”
They moved down the hall. Olivia’s hands shook at the door. The keys rattled in her hands. Fear and pain exhausted her, making her movements clumsy. The girl put a hand on Olivia’s, steadying them and said, “Here. Let me do it.”
Olivia let go of the keys.
“I’m Lucy.”
“Olivia.”
Lucy opened the door on the second try. Another pink room. Another prisoner on the bed. Startlingly similar to Olivia and Lucy except this one appeared as lifeless as a mannequin. Her eyes followed them as they entered the room. Despondency showed in her gaze. She didn’t have any clothes on and it didn’t seem to bother her. She didn’t try to cover herself at all. Books were scattered on the floor. The rest of the room appeared neat.
Lucy said, “Oh my God! Her hand. They cut off her hand!”
Olivia gasped. Her right arm ended at the wrist in an angry red stump, covered with scabs. A fluid-sopped bandage sat discarded at the foot of the bed. Her eyes regarded them with disinterest. Olivia knew this girl had been here a long time. Maybe even longer than her. She had that look to her, like just a part of her were here. The rest of her had escaped inside. Olivia knew all about that. She had tried it herself.
In a soft monotone she said, “They ate it, my hand. They brought it in here on a plate after to show me. Only my bones were left. They said it tasted delicious. They said my flesh was delicious.”
The girl turned her head to the wall seeing things only she could see.
Olivia said, “We’re getting out of here.”
Still facing the wall, the girl said, “No one gets out of here. They told me that.”
Olivia, voice hardening said, “They were wrong. We’re getting out. You’re coming with us.”
The girl didn’t move. The wall held her complete interest.
Lucy took clothes from the closet. Track pants and a sweatshirt. Must have been easy to shop. Same clothes, same sizes.
Lucy said, “Let me help you. C’mon. Put these on.”
The girl moved mechanically. Lucy manipulated her arms to get the sweatshirt on and pulled her off the bed to get the pants on. The girl lifted her legs to help when directed to do so with a tug or a touch. All the while, Olivia’s heart pounded, punching against her ribs. They were taking too much time. They have to go.
While dressing the girl, Lucy said, “How’d you do it? How’d you get out.”
“I killed him.”
Lucy’s head whipped around, “Both of them?”
Olivia shook her head, “No. Just Gorilla man.”
“The other guy wasn’t with him?”
“No. Just him.”
“But they always come together. Always.”
“Not this time.”
“How’d you kill him?”
“I bit his neck open.”
At that, the girl with no hand smiled. A small smile, but it was there all the same and it gave Olivia hope.
-6-
The next room: empty. Pink and identical to the others except lacking a victim.
Lucy said, “I don’t like the other guy still being out there. He could show up any second.”
“I’m trying not to think about it.”
“What’s with the pink? It’s like a fucking unicorn puked in here.”
The girl with no hand said, “They see us as toy dolls. We’re in a doll house. Their doll house.”
Olivia said, “What’s your name?”
“Jen.”
“I’m Olivia. This is Lucy.”
Jen moved a strand of her hair out of her eyes with the stump and said, “Thanks for not leaving me here.”
Olivia said, “You would have done the same.”
Jen shook her head, “No, I wouldn’t have. I would’ve run for the hills. I’m getting out of here.”
Jen turned and with careful steps, walked up the stairs.
Olivia and Lucy glanced at each other, wondering if Jen had the right idea. How many doors would they open? What type of chance were they taking staying around for so long? There was one door left. The last one. What if there were a whole slew of them upstairs? A giant house full of pink rooms with tortured dolls. What then? Olivia exhaled, knowing she could only worry about one thing at a time. Like the door ahead of them. They didn’t know what waited upstairs. No point in conce
rning themselves with that until they had to. But there could be one more girl like them, huddling in there, maybe pieces of her cut off, hoping for something, anything to vanquish the horror of being imprisoned here. Olivia said, “Just one more door! Then we all go together. All of us.”
Jen paused on the stairs, her thin shoulder bones trembling through the back of her sweater. Lucy said, “Hurry the fuck up, then!”
Olivia said, “Bring the keys.”
The last door was different than the others. Thicker, with a rubber seal along the bottom. Olivia put a hand on it, “It’s cold.”
Lucy slid a key in, turned it with a click and pushed the door. It hissed open. Cold air plumed out. Olivia and Lucy took a step back as frosted air billowed into the hallway.
Lucy saw them first. She yelped and gasped at the same time. A unique tittering sounding of lunacy and desperation. Lucy’s hand tightened on Olivia’s arm. The smoke cleared. Shadows became visible. Two girls were suspended from ceiling hooks with their stomachs hollowed out, resembling flesh canoes. One girl was minus a leg, the other one lacked an arm from the shoulder down. Cold storage for their food. Even death didn’t offer an escape. Olivia’s stomach gurgled. Sweat beaded her brow as a chill, originating in her bones, shook her entire body.
When Lucy spoke, Olivia jumped, “Let’s get the fuck out of here! Like now!”
Olivia backed up, her injured hand and foot a low throb in the background of this horror. That’s where they were supposed to end up, all three of them, in the meat fridge awaiting a gruesome dinner. The Gorilla and the Jackal, seated around a table alight with candles and napkins on their laps, wearing tuxedos and their masks. In her mind, they weren’t masks. They were their real faces and on the table by their plates, were human masks. Hearts in blood sauce from the stock in their secret freezer dressed their plates. Someone’s daughter, someone’s loved one. They’d toast each other with glasses full of red wine and dig in. The image conjured bile. She swallowed it and when she felt more in control she nodded at Lucy. Time to go.
