One
DOLLY
A blast of light drowns me in my cell. I scramble to the corner, as if that will keep them away. Huddling in the corner, dirty, naked, cold, shivering against the cinderblock walls…it’s not a turn off—not to them.
“There’s a good girl,” a familiar voice cracks through the silence. I cover my ears, pressing my hands to them as though it will drown him out.
It never has.
Not the other dozens of times he’s come for me.
“Come now, Dolly. It’s time to play for the camera.” The cell door creaks as it opens, and my body stiffens. The casual slap of his boots on the concrete floor sends ice through my veins.
I can’t do this.
Not again.
Please.
Begging doesn’t work.
It only makes him mad.
Still, I scream the pleas in my head, over and over again.
Maybe God will hear this time.
Maybe he’ll send help.
Maybe I’ll simply die and this will finally be over.
“Up you go.” His clammy hand wraps around my upper arm. “Someone needs a bath first.” He sniffs my hair. It’s tangled and matted from last night. The man made a mess, and no one cleaned me up.
“Let’s go.” He drags me to my feet and hauls me from my cell.
“No!” The words fall out before my mind blocks them. I yank and pull, kick at his fat shins, but I get nowhere.
“Enough!” he yells.
Another bright light blinds me. Stars and sunrays dance in my vision, the sharp pain in my jaw lost among the aches of my muscles.
I crumble in his grip. The fight, what pathetic amount I had, is gone.
I’ve been here too long to be so stupid.
My feet shuffle along the floor. I let him shove me into the stall.
“They’re wanting a little girl today. Your specialty,” he says as he turns on the water. Ice cold drops hit my face. A shudder breaks the tension in my back. “A few bows, some pigtails—you’ll do real good.” He shoves a bar of soap in my hand. It’s filthy, just like everything else here, covered in the dirt and grime of those who came before me.
“Won’t you, Dolly?” he presses for an answer, like I can make my throat work to produce anything other than a sob.
“Won’t you.” His hand rests on the coil of rope he keeps hooked to his belt.
I don’t want the rope.
“Yes. I’ll be a good dolly,” I promise. “A good dolly,” I say again as I run the bar of soap over my aching breasts and between my legs.
Tears well up in my eyes, but they get lost in the spray of the shower.
Clean and pure.
It’s what sells.
It’s what keeps me alive.
So far.
Two
DOLLY
“Food’s here.” A tray drops onto my cell floor. Water sloshes out of the shallow cup and puddles on the concrete.
I tense in my corner. Until he backs out and locks the cell door, I’m on alert. It’s been two days since I was dragged upstairs for another scene. I’m sure I won’t be given another day of reprieve. They have tight schedules to adhere to. It’s what they tell me when they shove me into the dark rooms. I need to hurry. I need to keep up. I need to shut the fuck up and spread my legs.
“Eat.” He toes the tray toward me. Why hasn’t he left yet?
It could be a trick. If I reach for it, will he snag it away? They like to do that. A small gesture of comfort ripped from my grasp. It’s entertainment for them.
Pangs grip my stomach just smelling the burnt hotdog. I’m too hungry to risk the tray disappearing and he’s not leaving, so I crawl across the cold concrete, each movement making the bruises on my knees throb. His approving grunt fills my cell. Scurrying like a scavenger for the food tossed my way must please him. The more they treat me like an animal, the happier they seem to be.
Picking up the metal tray, I lean back against the cot frame, cradling it on my folded legs. Only taking a small sip of water, I quench a fraction of my thirst. If I drink it too fast, I’ll throw it up again. I made that mistake already and paid the price. I won’t be stupid again.
“Go on. Eat.” He still won’t leave.
“Am…am I going upstairs today?” It’s a big risk, asking him that question. But not knowing is making my chest tighten. I’ve always been a worrier. Since I was a little girl. What if the sun got too hot? What if it started snowing and never stopped? Always more questions than answers. I could drown in questions. Sitting in my cell, not knowing what’s planned for me…it sucks the air from my lungs.
“You want to?” he asks, amusement in his tone. “You’re eager to get to work.”
I shake my head and take a small bite of the hotdog. It’s blackened from a fire, but it’s cold. My stomach doesn’t care.
“When…when can I go home?” I’m pushing my luck, but the question leaks out between bites.
“When Bossman says you can.”
Bossman. He makes all the decisions—none of them good for me.
“Please. Just let me go home.” I raise my eyes to look at his face. Thick black stubble covers his chin. His lips bubble between his mustache and beard.
“I just told you. When Bossman says you’re done. Not until then.” He bends down and grabs the tray.
I snag the cup of water, quickly gulping the last few sips. A drop escapes and lingers on my lips. They’re so dry, it burns, but I lick it up. I need every bit. I need to get stronger. I need to get my head clear and my legs to move. I need to find a way out of here.
Bossman says he’ll let me go, but he’s lying. It’s been days…or weeks…or months. Time doesn’t exist in this cell. Sun doesn’t exist. There’s no day, no night, only upstairs and downstairs. He’s not going to let me go. I have to start thinking of a way out.
“I won’t tell anyone, I swear.” Pathetic, I know. A sign of how stupid I’ve become. It’s not a ploy or lie, though. I couldn’t even imagine telling anyone what goes on here. How could I explain the things I’ve done—the things I’m going to do next time they drag me upstairs?
“Of that, I’m certain.” Laughing, he steps back out of my cell and slams the door. Metal clanks against metal as he slides the lock in place.
“Please.” I crawl to the door, gripping the bars. I hate this part: the begging. It goes unanswered, but his eyes shine with pleasure. He wants me to crawl for him, to plead with him so he can take away my hope.
He crouches in front of me, balancing the tray in one hand. Reaching through the bars, he picks up a thick curl and rubs it between his fingers. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby girl. I know you don’t want me to go.” His lips screw into a devil’s grin. “I’ll make sure your next scene is with me. Would you like that?”
I want to recoil, but that will make him angry—and anger is to be avoided.
“I want to go home,” I whisper.
“I’m sure you’ll do your best.” He drops my hair and stands up. His erection strains against his jeans. He lingers to make sure I see it. My reprieve is coming to an end.