Nightmare

The cement floor I’m lying on is cold. I shiver and try to ignore the black spots forming in my vision. My whole body hurts, and I let out a small whimper. The welts on my legs are infected, and pus is dripping from them. I know I need a doctor, but Sir only calls one when the wounds are life-threatening.

I hate Sir, my master, my torturer. The middle-aged man who brought me to this huge house when I was only five years old. Took me out of the overpopulated orphanage that was more than happy to let him take a child off their hands. He stole everything from me... my life, my freedom, my innocence... the moment I stepped foot into this house.

A child screams in the distance, and I try to detach myself from the sound. I know what’s happening. I know it’ll be my turn again soon, once I’ve healed a bit more. The screaming gets closer, the voice growing weaker until it turns into soft sobs. This girl must be new... she sounds young. I feel pity, but a darker part of me is relieved. Another person means more time for me to heal. More time alone. More time away from Sir.

The door opens, and I look up. The comforting darkness around me is disrupted by the faint light spilling in from the hallway. It stings my eyes, making me squint and groan. A guard enters, carrying a plate of the usual: cold, watered-down soup, hard bread, and a small cup of lukewarm water. He also sets down a bucket... for relieving myself.

I try to push myself up to reach the food, but I’m too weak. Another whimper rises in my throat, but I force it back down. I can’t show weakness. I have to be hard. Detached. Cold.

The guard leans against the wall, arms folded over his bulky chest, smirking. He enjoys my pain. I can see it. I’m glad Sir makes it clear that no one else can touch his Dolls. Because I know that look in the guard’s eyes. Lust. He wants me like Sir has me.

I cringe and crawl toward the plate. It takes forever, and by the time I reach it, I start eating straight from the bowl. I no longer feel ashamed to eat like an animal. I know what I am... nothing. Just a toy for Sir. I learned that quickly.

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. I don’t even know how old I am. I look down at my thin, broken body. Bruises, welts, and old scars cover my once porcelain skin. My bones press through my skin, and I barely have any breasts. But there’s hair growing in places there wasn’t before, so I must be a teenager by now... if what the older girls said in the orphanage was right.

I haven’t seen the sky since I left the orphanage. Haven’t felt the wind in my hair or the sun warming my skin since that day. I don’t even remember what it feels like.

After I finish eating and drinking, the guard roughly shoves me aside and takes the plate. He leaves the bucket and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the lock clicking still breaks my heart. I want to cry, but I’ve already cried a lifetime’s worth of tears. I’m completely empty.

I open my eyes and throw the dirty blanket off my body. I’m sweating and breathing hard. Getting up, I glance at the cracked mirror hanging on the wall near the door. I look like hell. Sweat drips down my skin, my eyes are wide, and my shirt is ripped, my breasts fully exposed. Must’ve torn it while thrashing in my nightmare.

I rip the shirt off, toss it into the trash, and head into the dingy bathroom. A cockroach scuttles across the sink like it owns the place. Hell, maybe it does. Who knows anymore?

I step into the sorry excuse of a shower and scrub the terror of the dream off my skin. It’s funny how numb I am to everything now, yet still haunted by the past. Pathetic.

After the quick shower, I pull on a black string thong, my black leather pants, a gray tank top, my leather biker jacket, and combat boots. I’ve got a small B cup, so I don’t wear a bra. They just make me uncomfortable.

I tie my dreadlocks into a low ponytail and look for my phone. 6:00 AM. Good. I’ve still got a three-hour drive ahead of me.

I pack my shit into my black leather backpack and grab my hunter knife and Glock. I don’t go anywhere without them.

I tuck the knife into the hidden pocket I stitched inside my boot, pulling my jeans over it so it stays concealed. The Glock goes in the back of my pants. Then I walk outside.

I hate motels like this, but they’re cheap and no one asks questions.

I walk to my bike, load my gear into the duffel bags, and straddle the seat. With a smooth motion, I start it up and ride out, heading into the rising light. Three more hours to go.

Toward a small town in the middle of the Nevada desert.