2
Amber
The screams haunt me every time I close my eyes, so I don't close them anymore. I simply sit here with my face pressed against my knees, breathing in the scent of my own piss-soaked jeans, the copper of my blood, and who knows how many others'.
It's ironic, I know, to think that I was lucky. Maybe it's some sort of survival mechanism, some part of my brain tricking me into thinking that I escaped a grisly fate.
I'm not lucky.
If I were, I'd be free. If I were, I wouldn't be sitting here in the back of this dark truck, the heat making it hard to breathe as I tell myself I'm lucky.
If I were lucky, I wouldn't have been taken.
But I'm glad it wasn't me that they dragged off the back of the truck. I'm glad it wasn't me that they slammed up against the door and took turns forcing their dicks inside. I'm grateful I didn't make eye contact, that she was more attractive, and that she spoke up. I'm grateful it wasn't me who was left to scream herself raw as she was raped right in front of the rest of us and then shot in the back of the head. I don't know what it says about me that I am. Her suffering is over, but ours has just begun. That much is clear when the truck rumbles to a stop again and everyone crowds together, like we can save one another from the fate that someone else has decided for us.
There are three men in here with us, but unless they're playing some sick fucking game, none of them are working for our captors. They're victims too, which means they're not a threat. At least two of them aren't. The burly one looks like he's a threat to the entire world, like he'll tear limb from limb anyonewho so much as looks at him in the eye. He thinks he's too good to be here, that he doesn't match the victim profile. And to be fair, he's probably right. I don't know what fate awaits us all, but the fact that we've been driving for what feels like days (though it's invariably only a few hours) and that they so ruthlessly picked a girl at their leisure to brutalize is a good enough indication that their intentions are wicked.
The girl to my right buries her face in my ribcage, and I don't push her away despite how hard it already is to breathe without someone compressing my lungs any further.
I don't dare look up, but light seeps in as the door opens, letting them take their pick.
A flashlight beam bounces over our faces, or our filthy hands most of us are hiding behind, trying not to let them see their options... lest we find ourselves the unfortunate chosen one.
Someone whimpers, and I feel the truck dip as one of our captors climbs into the trailer to survey his options. I school my breathing, refusing to let any sound slip from me that may attract attention.
In the darkness, Parker's hand squeezes mine, reassuring me that it will be okay. He won't let anything happen to me.
I've always felt safe with him, but he can only protect me from so much. Monsters under the bed, creepy families with kids who may well be ghosts lingering behind them, junkies on the street... he could keep me safe from all of it because he was my older brother in every way that mattered.
But these men with their shiny guns tucked into their waistbands... these monsters don't run when someone turns on the light. They don't retreat to the shadows because theyareshadows... they're the very makeup of darkness itself.
I hear the footsteps come to a stop, and my bladder feels ready to burst again, if my heart doesn't go first. It's trying so hard to quiet down, to stop for just long enough to let them pass.
The scream makes me want to sob, but I bite my lip and focus on the pain, the blood that blooms where the fist collided with my lip earlier.
It had taken me off guard just enough that the man could get his arms around me and heft me against him. I had screamed out for Parker on instinct, but my head was spinning too much to see him as he looked up from across the bar and saw me being dragged to this truck by a stranger. He came after me, and now we're here.
The man with the black and white handkerchief tied around his nose chooses his victim. He’s alone in choosing this time, but not alone in his torment. They always have someone to hold the rest of us at bay, to point a gun at the crowd of us so we don't get any ideas about escape. Through the gap between my arm and my knee, I see the filthy hand close tighter around a small ankle, dragging the woman toward him as she frantically tries to escape him to no avail.
They don't take her out of the truck this time, sparing us any guesses about exactly what happens as he drags her to him.
Even when I squeeze my eyes shut, I can see what's happening.
I imagine the man with the bandana tied around his mouth as he pulls her toward where he kneels against the filthy wood planks on the floor, his cock out as he prepares himself to breach her. I imagine all of the women in here with me scrambling onto their knees in an attempt to move away, as if they have anywhere to go.
They don’t. None of us do.
We're huddled as far as we can get into the trailer, our backs to the wooden plank that separates us from the cab as we wait for her torture to end.
It hurts to open my eyes, which are swollen with all the useless tears I've cried, but I pry them open just enough to see her on her stomach, her arms out from where she's tried to escape, her nails digging through the wood to try and get some leverage, to stop him from dragging her into the hell he’s fashioned.
The man behind her has knocked her flat beneath him, and her fingers still scrabble for purchase that won't come as she tries to avoid the fate she's been dealt. Her scream blends with the sound in my head from the last girl, the keening wails as she was robbed of her virtue. I don’t know why they shot her, but it feels like it was a merciful end to the agony of what they did to her. I justwonder if the same fate awaits the rest of us… if it will feel as merciful when they put a gun to my head and release me from this brutal world.
She must feel so alone out there in the dark. Will anyone find her body? Did they have the decency to dress her again, or did they leave her on display for the whole world to see what they did to her?
My fingers are numb as they inch through the dark toward the girl on her stomach, her cheek pressed against the ground as one of the men puts their boot to her face, trapping her in place. I don’t dare look away from him, despite the fact there’s not much to see. He wears all black, a balaclava covering his head and face as he rests his weight against her, keeping her from fighting any further as the man behind him tears her clothes from her body.
I don't know if she notices my touch at first, as my fingers wrap around hers, a reminder that she's not alone. It's a shitty reminder, really, that her torment has an audience, but I don't want her to feel so lonely.
