out. Arman is not Russian. This much I know. And he told me once that we were in Bulgaria, but this is not his native land. The rest are just details that elude me.
I may not understand the words that Arman speaks, but I’ve come to understand his mannerisms well. And when Karolina takes one pill from the locket, panic takes hold of me. I need two. Two pills to equal seven days. I hold up two fingers in a plea, and Arman slams his foot into my stomach. My body curls into itself as I launch into a coughing fit and fight for air.
I have to resist the urge to squeeze my eyes shut and block everything out as he finishes his instructions to Karolina. There is still a part of me that hopes he will be merciful, but that part is foolish. He leaves the room without any further regard to me. It’s for the best, I realize. Because I might be able to fool Karolina, but I can’t fool him.
And there is still one pill.
One pill is better than nothing. She hands it to me and I slip it into my mouth and under my tongue. And then she shackles my legs to the hooks along the wall, leaving just enough leeway for varied positions. I want her to leave now, but she doesn’t. Instead, she glances back over her shoulder, and a cruel smile takes over her features when she turns back. She kicks me in the stomach twice more and then leans down to spit on my face.
“Dog,” she mutters in a heavy accent. “Enjoy your evening.”
She sashays from the room and I’m left gasping for air, horrified as I realize that I swallowed the pill whole in my coughing fit. Seven. It was only supposed to be seven days. Now it’s eight.
Tears blur my vision, and I collapse onto the fluid stained mattress in a heap. My eyes land on the familiar lines etched into the wall by my nail, and I retrace the line from this morning with my finger. Repeating the same word over and over in my head.
Seven. Seven. Seven.
At some point, the music upstairs begins to vibrate through the ceiling. I know it won’t be long now. Drinks first. They’ll all be drunk when they come down here. Sometimes that’s better. Other times, it’s worse.
The door opens. I don’t look. But I hear Arman’s voice. And feel the eyes of his guests as they inspect me. This is Arman’s version of a dinner party, his slaves offered up as dessert. They talk amongst themselves, deciding who gets to go first. Sometimes they share. Sometimes there are so many on me at once I can’t breathe. And I like that sensation. The air slipping from my lungs. I want them to empty completely and steal everything away. But it never happens.
Because Arman would kill them if they killed me.
The door closes behind me, and I’m left with only one man. I can tell by his breathing. One breath, one man. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. I rarely see their faces anymore. I rarely see anything, other than the lines on the wall and the numbers in my head. Seven. Seven. Seven.
A zipper comes down. And then the sound of foil tearing. Arman makes them wear a condom when they take me. And they don’t get to hit me either. I wish they would. I wish they’d hit me so hard I could fade into the blackness. But that special privilege is reserved for Arman only. And he’ll never let me go.
He’s inside of me now. This faceless man. And everything is one dimensional. The pill has entered my bloodstream and I feel nothing. I only hear him. Grunting and cursing.
I count the lines on the wall. And the lyrics to Angel of the Morning by Skeeter Davis play through my mind like an old record. My mother’s voice. I sing along with her. And see their faces. Three empty, vacant faces of my brother and sisters. Lying on the bathroom floor.
Water in my lungs. Air slipping away. Clawing, thrashing. And the soothing song my mother sings while she holds me under.
My eyes flicker open and shut, everything distorted and sharp all at once. Seven lines. Seven days. Angels in the morning. Mother’s hand on my cheek. Gasping for breath as I cough up water and see the halo of her hair surrounding her in the bathtub.
They are all gone.