The room pulses with an oppressive rhythm, like a heart that continues to beat after death. The charcoal walls glisten with moisture and centuries old blood.
My legs are spread, and my ankles are shackled down.
I feel sick.
“Hold on. I won’t do it again, okay? I made a mistake!” I try to keep my voice steady, but the panic leaks into my tone, quivering my speech.
A hand swings into my jaw, hard enough to sink my teeth into my tongue.
“Speak when spoken to, Demechnef Whore!”
Tears involuntarily flood to my eyes.
My red uniform panties are ripped off, making me scream, and leaving a pink mark around my hips. I drop my head to the table and hyperventilate, staring at the yellow and red bulbs hanging from the ceiling like the garland of a grotesque carnival canopy.
I know what this room is now.
Soldiers are seated and standing, flicking their tongues between two fingers to taunt me. Their dull lip piercings, tattoos, and brown teeth send a pulse of bile splashing along the back of my throat.
The vulgar words and belittling jabs all blend together with the wheezing moans of the glitching music. An organ and trumpet playing off key in obnoxious intervals.
This is the Black Widow Room.
Crude circus masks meant to scare me are pulled over their faces. I focus on the sulfur-halos around the men’s boots.
My face wrinkles together like a young girl. And I don’t even feel the fiery sting of the glistening wounds from being dragged through the halls anymore.
I know I am about to be assaulted.
I know I will be powerless to stop it.
The table gives a low, metallic groan as my straps and chains are secured.
I inhale sharply, pulling in the unforgettable stench of grease, copper, and burned sugar.
My mind wages through a million possibilities. I could try and travel right now to get myself out of this. But what if I end up leaving Niklaus behind? I’d never forgive myself if I lost him. I’d never be able to look his mother in the eye and tell her I left him in the Vexamen Prison to die.
I watch with pleading eyes as they walk the tank and haunting crow mask to my table. Cheers. Laughter. Applause.
Screams.
My screams.
The shrieks are broken and hoarse, stinging my vocal cords until I make unrecognizable, animalistic noises out of sheer terror.
This isn’t like what Apple May did to me in the asylum.
That was with Niklaus.
He is no stranger to me.
These men are brutes. Wild and cruel.
I’m howling words. Sentences strung together out of begging for freedom. And nothing—nothingin this world can compare to praying not to be molested.
A blast of air hits the sensitive skin between my legs.
A brass door crashes against the wall.
