But I can’t help it. Baring my teeth, I pound my fist against the walls, wishing I could bore straight through. I’ve tried begging before—“I won’t go anywhere, just let me out.”—but it never works. No one’s listening, and even if they were, they wouldn’t care. No one here ever does. So I rattle the bars of my cage by pounding my fists into the walls, and then I race around the room to convince myself it hasn’t gotten smaller between one panicked heartbeat and the next.
I’m not stupid.
I know it’s hopeless.
No one’s coming to save me. There was a time, in the beginning, when I used to imagine my father sweeping in to say I’ve learned my lesson. He’d give me that long, haughty, disappointed look, as if I’ve failed him in every conceivable way—fact—but he’d still let me go. It was a nice dream, for a hot minute.
Desperate for a distraction, I sort the books on the bed, searching for one I haven’t read. There’s one with a shirtless pirate that I’ve been avoiding. The man on the cover has a broad chest and piercingly blue eyes, and whenever I look at it, I think of storm clouds and thorns.
Little bird…
My muscles tighten at the memory of Nick’s voice. It’s been a long while since he came here, which is both a blessing and a curse. It’s never good when he shows up, but the longer he doesn’t, the more the dread about his impending arrival builds. It’s better to just get it over with, to bear his intense, creepy stare and filthy words for an hour, and then be free of it for a week or two.
I’ve just picked the book up again when I hear a noise outside my barred window.
There are a lot of sounds at the Hideaway. Music. Raised voices. Laughter. Moans. Grunts. Shrieks of faked pleasure. They’re not always fun sounds. There’s also the occasional bar fight. At least once a week, the police show up, lights flashing outside my window, carrying out a John who took a few too many liberties with one of the girls. Twice an ambulance has come.
I’m attuned to each sound by now, constantly awaiting the turn of that knob.
I wait a beat, but hear nothing else, so I settle back in against the pillows. I open the pirate book in an attempt to calm the disquiet writhing beneath my flesh. It’s a dumb reason to avoid it, thinking the man on the cover looks like Nick. The most odious thing about him is how deceptively he’s been nicknamed around these parts. Pretty. What a shit word to describe such a beautifully rotten person.
The pages have that musty scent of an old bookstore, and inside is the penciled in price of twenty-five cents. I find that I can’t be bothered with it, though. My eyes grow heavy, attention waning, and it’s a comfort to close the book and set it aside. To turn off the light. To grasp clumsily for the truest sense of freedom I’m afforded in this fucked up place.
Sleep.
*
Shattering glass wakes me, kicking my heart into gear, until I remember where I am. What I am. I refuse to fully rouse and deal with the midnight drama of the brothel. I roll onto my stomach, cheek against my pillow, and will myself to slip back under. It’s warm here, in this place where time is without substance or form. So I’m not exactly sure what makes my eyelids rise. Maybe it’s the strange breeze against my back, or the sudden loss of static in the air, like something is blocking it out.
The column of shadow in front of my dresser is so still that it doesn’t even look like anything at first. It looks like furniture. A statue. A stone pillar that’s been a part of this place’s foundation long before I closed my eyes, even though I intrinsically know it doesn’t belong. The sheer curtain covering the egress window above billows around it, caressing the silhouette’s shoulder. I can almost believe it’s part of a slow, prophetic dream.
Then, it moves closer.
A gasp catches in my throat.
Before I can even make head or tails out of the figure across the room, a heavy weight lands on my back, smashing me into the mattress. It knocks the air from my lungs, which escapes in a rattle as I thrash, heartbeat kicking into gear.
The weight gets heavier right before a hand covers my mouth, fingertips digging painfully into the soft give of my cheeks.
The person leans over me to speak into my ear. “Settle down,” says the deranged voice, “or I’ll gut you like a fucking fish.” I pant through my nose, wide eyes pinging around the scant parts of the room I can see. The only thing I can make out are the harsh, excited breaths of the maniac pinning me down. The low timbre of his voice. The scent of him, spice and musk, as he breathes into my ear. “Nod if you understand,” the maniac demands, his weight too constricting, too confining.