The second our eyes meet, both of us look away. Incapable of connecting over something that we both suffered through. Shame. Embarrassment. Sorrow. All are at the forefront as we walk into the room.
Bethany and Gloria are picking through the clothes on a rack Francesca must’ve set out for us. Instead of revealing outfits, warm clothing hangs from the metal rod. Guess it wouldn’t be ideal for five girls to run for their life with a thong riding up their ass and tassels hanging from their nipples in freezing weather.
Jillian is sitting at a vanity and putting on concealer in hopes of covering up the dark circles rimming the underside of her eyes. Briefly, we make eye contact, but her gaze flickers away immediately. I haven’t seen her since our punishment—apparently, she’s been sick and has missed out on the last couple of lessons.
A swarm of angry bees rises up my throat, and I can’t stop the uncontrollable bitterness from taking hold, seizing my heartstrings, and turning it into a puppet of mass destruction.
Did she sleep that night? Hearing three girls scream in pain and begging for them to stop? Begging and begging and begging.
Please.
Pleaaase, stop!
Please, I’m begging you!
Please… please… please…
Has she grown tired of the word? Does it sound funny to her now? When a word is said so many times, it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore. It sounds like gibberish—a sound comprised of pitch and tones that hold no real meaning. A construct that humans have formed to communicate their wants and needs. But what do words fucking matter when no one listens?
Her eyes meet mine again, a glossy sheen over the surface of them. And there it is. Shame. Embarrassment. Sorrow.
She made it out unscathed, and it looks like survivor’s guilt has been gnawing at her insides for the past few days.
I deflate, berating myself for taking my anger out on someone who doesn’t deserve it. Jillian is just trying to survive like the rest of us. None of this is her fault.
Then, Sydney walks in, all high and mighty, and my unwarranted anger towards Jillian redirects itself towards the person who actually deserves it. She acts as if she didn’t spend an entire day screaming in a cellar.
Biting my tongue, I walk over to the vanity next to Jillian, my movements mechanical. My bones feel like rusty hinges as I reach for a bright pink sponge and concealer. It’s going to take mounds of it to hide the distress, but I settle with a few dollops to start.
My hand trembles as I apply chemicals to my face that are meant to hide my pain. Bethany and Phoebe talk quietly in the background, whispers full of fear and comfort.
Bad, bad girls.
I consider listening in on their conversation, but I’m distracted when Sydney starts tearing off her clothes until she’s naked. Jillian and I have a clear view of her through our vanity mirrors. We both pause, hands suspended in the air as we stare at the unhinged girl behind us, now picking through the clothes on the rack.
Bethany and Phoebe’s whispers taper off, and soon the entire room is disturbingly enraptured by her.
I can’t help but watch her as she hums, takes a shirt off the rack, and observes it as if she’s a regular girl shopping in a fancy boutique. Entirely unbothered by the eyes burning into her exposed skin.
Forcing my attention away, I glance at Jillian. She’s now staring hard at herself, most likely trying to avoid Sydney’s naked form reflected in the mirror.
“You have any advice?” I ask, my voice weak and hoarse from all the screaming.
I watch her freeze from the corner of my eye. She collects herself and then resumes blending her concealer, clearing her throat.
“Cover your tracks,” she says quietly, her Russian accent prominent. She has a beautiful voice, and Rocco's friends thinks so, too. “And run only when necessary. It isn’t about how far you can get; it’s about making sure they never find you. You can run for hours, and you’ll always lead them right to you.”
“They can’t get you if they don’t know where you are,” I mutter aloud. The words come out raspy and broken, but I don’t bother trying to repeat myself. “What about the traps?”
“I counted the distance between them the best I could. They’re about thirty feet apart, roughly. They’re uniform, so the hunters know how to avoid them.”
I roll my lip between my teeth. “Thank you for helping me.”
She glances at me. “Don’t mention it.”
Literally, or we’ll both be in trouble.
We descend into silence after that. She doesn’t offer any consolation, but it’s not something I would ever want from her. From anyone.