Doc takes me through the main room, past the bar, and to a door at the back that leads down another corridor. Nondescript wooden doors line the dull, dirty green hallway, and I catch scraps of what looks like old wallpaper lining the walls. I used to think about all the people who visited here during the prohibition, all the bright young things who were just looking for a good time in a world that was lifeless and gray. Now there’s just the desolate drabness of the place, full of ghosts all writhing in pain and screaming for someone to come and rescue them. I know from firsthand experience that there are no white knights in this world, no one who cares enough when a young girl screams at a monster to stop.
He stops in front of a door that I’m all too familiar with, a polished, brass plaque on the front, reading ‘Soldiers Darling.’ It’s the only thing that shines in the low, dingy corridor. A shiver penetrates the numbness that I’ve been wrapping aroundmyself, and I have to work hard to pull it back again, trying to disappear under its comforting embrace.
Two goons stand either side of the door as Doc opens it and walks inside.
“See you real soon, Darlin’,” one of them whispers in my ear as I pass, and my steps stutter with his lecherous tone. He must be one of the new recruits that has made Corporal. I’ll be seeing him later then.
“Ignore them, Lark,” Doc grits out as he ushers me inside, shutting the door with a finality that’s like a nail being driven into a coffin. Stopping in the middle of the room, I look around at the bare walls and the second door that I know leads to the sparse bathroom. “I’m so sorry, Lark. I tried to convince your father that you weren’t sufficiently healed, but he wouldn’t listen?—”
“He’s not my father,” I interrupt, my words sounding hollow to my ears as I stand there.
Like picking at a scab, I can’t stop my eyes from falling to the double bed, its ornate, metal headboard resting against the far wall. A flash of memory covers my vision, and I’m on the bed, wrists tied to the bars, a Soldier between my thighs as another waits his turn. I blink and I’m back in the empty room, Doc hovering in front of me with his brow deeply furrowed.
“They’re coming tonight, Lark. You just have to hold on until then,” he tells me, taking one of my hands in his. My eyebrows twitch at the warm sensation, and I realize how chilled my skin is compared to his, like I already have one foot in the grave.
“You and I both know, Doc, that rescuing me is not high on Adam Taylor’s list of priorities.”
“Maybe not his, but those boys look at you as if the world begins and ends with you. It will be the first thing they will do,” he tells me, his tone unwavering in its conviction.
Maybe, I think, unable to form the word for fear that it’s not true, that they will come for me in time and all will be well. I can’t afford to get my hopes up, to have any hope at all. Hope doesn’t belong in a place like this. No, only despair and degradation.
“I best get ready, Doc,” I murmur instead, dropping his hand before stepping to the side and around the old man. I’m not sure I can take any more of his kindness without breaking, and I need to shore up my defenses for what’s coming. His sigh is heavy behind me.
“I’ll be back, after. To check on you,” he says, and I can hear his frustration.
“Thank you, Doc,” I reply, opening the bathroom door and shuffling into the cold tile room, turning the light on but avoiding my reflection in the mirror.
My shoulders slump when the outer door clicks open and then shuts, the sound of the lock being engaged making my heart rate pick up in both relief and dread.
Robotically, I turn on the old taps of the shower, pulling aside the stiff curtain then stripping out of my filthy clothes and stepping over the rim of the tub. The hot water washes over my chilled skin, but I can’t enjoy it, can’t even let the mask of numbness drop for a second if it’s going to be thick enough to survive this evening.
Using the sweet, cherry-scented shower gel that was always left for me—the sickly scent making bile rise in my throat—I wash myself thoroughly, cleaning my matted hair too with the shampoo and conditioner. Rufus made sure there were all the things I needed to keep me clean for his men in here, a joke considering they never minded sloppy seconds, thirds, or fifths. I’m guessing by the swelling of the ranks there’ll be a hell of a lot more tonight.
Trying not to think about what’s coming too much, I use one of the threadbare towels to dry myself off once I step out, reaching into the cabinet for the leave-in conditioner and brush. Taking a deep inhale, I face the mirror, trying to avoid looking at anything other than my hair.
Of course, I fail, and a stuttered cry leaves my lips when I take in the yellow and purple bruises on my face and the dark circles around my eyes. But what shocks me the most is the haunted look in my eyes, the normally light blue darkened to more of a washed-out gray. I look into the eyes of a girl who has seen too much, been through too much, and yet still has more to survive.
It’s almost my undoing, but then I remember Aeron’s words.
“We will come for you; I fucking swear it.”
Fuck, I shouldn’t let that kernel of hope take root, but it does regardless, and it’s enough to allow me to go back to brushing the tangles out of my hair until it falls like a damp red curtain, sleek and shiny around me.
Setting the brush down, I step back into the bedroom, looking around the space once again. More scraps of old wallpaper line the walls, and I know without looking too hard that it’s a floral pattern. I’ve studied it enough over the years to have memorized every line by heart and to hate chintz now. There are no curtains; underground rooms don’t need a window, and apart from the bed and a low bedside cabinet that I know is empty aside from a battery-powered lamp, there’s not another lick of furniture in here.
Emerald green flashes as my gaze sweeps past the bed, and I inch closer to see that it’s a see-through lace teddy, no panties. I shudder, my mouth filling with saliva like I’m about to be sick when I realize that my sperm donor bought this for me. He always said that emerald looked best on me, and he likes to dressme up for his men, no matter that one or two of them will rip whatever lingerie I’m forced to wear.
With shaking hands, I reach for the garment, letting the towel drop from around my body to land with a soft sound against the concrete floor. No soft rugs here, easier to clean I suppose. It always surprised me that the bed had fresh bedding on it, crisp and white, but once when Rufus caught me looking, he told me it makes for a nicer experience when you fuck a woman on fresh sheets. I’d wanted to tell him that they were far from fresh when his men had left, although, I guess with the laundrette above us, that’s not really an issue.
I pull the garment over my head, letting the soft fabric slide down my naked body in a gentle caress I doubt any of my visitors will give me.
And then, I wait.
“PERFECT” BY MY DARKEST DAYS
KNOX
We wait.
