It’s sticky.
It’s him.
His cum.
During senior year, I heard girls talking in our school’s locker rooms. How some boys were into marking their girlfriends with their seed. How hot it was.
Maybe for them. And why not? They consented to it.
I haven’t. I haven’t been awake for this. No one’s asked me what I wanted.
Another wave of nausea rolls over me. Acid burns through my stomach.
My eyes squeeze shut, shame making me want to disappear.
Barclay was right. The Restorer has invited me here to be his whore. To fulfill his sick sexual fantasies.
Why me?
Where did he even find me?
Was he a patient at the hospital? Is he one of the doctors or nurses who work there? The med-room watchers?
Maybe. Or maybe The Restorer caught a glimpse of me on the street on my way to or from work. A complete stranger who developed a twisted obsession.
The heavy eyes on me in the hospital. The creepy presence near my home.
It could’ve been him all along.
He could’ve been studying his prey. Determining if I was good enough to be tortured.
I slam a hand over my mouth to silence a sob.
No money, no agreement, no promise is worth being treated like this.
A dingy apartment in another city, somewhere where they won’t ask for a credit score and are willing to take cash, we could do that. It wouldn’t be optimal, given Barclay’s condition.
Better than living on the street, though. Better than being used.
Gathering what’s left of my strength, I move to sit on the side of the bed.
That’s when I stop cold, ice rakes across my skin as shock hits me.
Photos. Dozens of them, pinned to the wall in front of me, reaching as high as six-four, six-five, their edges overlapping.
My face goes numb as I understand what I’m seeing.
It’s me. I’m the model in each photo.
Every inch of my body is documented on this wall from hell, arranged into a diabolical collage.
The small freckle over my elbow. The faint bleach marks on my fingertips. My hair, each lock of it appearing in a different frame.
This has to be a nightmare.
This…this can’t be real life. Can’t.
Determined to touch this collage, I throw my feet on the floor, making my way to the wall. That’s what you do with nightmares, after all. You confront them with reality, then they disappear.
