“Go change your shirt. I can see through the cheap ass material.” She takes the file to her desk, and I make my way to the locker room, the image of Abigail Johansen flashing behind my eyes. Pretty enough girl to catch the depraved attention of wicked men. My years on the force send my imagination into overdrive, but nothing I come up with can probably compare to hell she’s living—the debauchery she’s facing.
I burst into the locker room. Our careers aside, worst case, we find the girl dead—or would that be the best case?
Four
Dolly
“Looks like Ken is still sleeping.” Beardman is back.
I roll onto my side, tucking my knees as far up to my chin as I can. I’m tired, so tired.
“C’mon, Dolly. Playtime.” The keys jangle as they work into the lock.
I shake my head, but don’t dare make a sound.
“We need to dress you up.” He’s inside. His feet shuffle over the concrete, and an eerie chill climbs down my spine. He’s standing over me. If I keep my eyes closed, will this all go away?
All this time, and stupid ideas still pop into my head.
He kicks the cot, and it’s enough to get me moving. My stomach will be next.
I push myself up, and before I can blink my eyes open, he pulls me to my feet. I shuffle behind him. He’s turned on all the lights in the hall. The brightness blinds me, so I keep my head down. It’s a small thing, protecting my eyes, but it’s all I can do.
The wooden stairs aren’t level. Some of them tilt to the side, and a few are loose. I trip twice going up them. Beardman doesn’t break stride even as my knees scrape on the last step.
Even more light cascades over my face as we emerge from the cellar. It’s real light—sunlight. Black dots my vision as I scramble to keep up with him.
“Ah, there’s my girl. There’s my pretty doll,” Bossman welcomes me. The thick scent of stale cigars fills the room. “Put your hand down so I can see you.” His tone is light, almost happy, but I’m getting smarter. He’s only putting on a show. The cameras must be on already.
“She needs a dress, and her hair needs to be brushed,” Beardman criticizes, like he doesn’t like me being in here yet.
“No, no, I’ll dress her. It’s fine.” Bossman takes my hand. “You can go now.”
As soon as the door shuts quietly from behind me, I lift my gaze from the floor, and my heart pulses. A full-sized bed with white and pink lace blankets and a baby pink canopy rests against the far wall, and to the left is a white bookcase filled with books and toys next to a full-length mirror. My gaze settles on my reflection.
My hair is longer. The flat stomach I’ve always wanted, spent hours doing crunches in my bedroom to achieve, shows how much I haven’t been eating.
“Such a pretty little dolly,” Bossman says. No one ever uses names around me. Bossman, Beardman,—they are characteristics I want to remember. Because when I get out of here—if I get out of here—I’ll need to describe them. I will need to remember this was real, it actually happened, and I wasn’t imagining the nightmare. If I forget, if I blend it all into the background, I’ll feel too safe, and I could end up here again—and I won’t let that happen.
Cameras are mounted in two corners, facing downward, and one stands on a tripod facing the entire room. The red lights glow.
We’re live.
A laptop sits on the nightstand beside the bed. The screen flickers. He’s taking live comments and suggestions.
I catch the sob before it escapes me. If I cry, he’ll accuse me of being ungrateful and a brat—and brats get punished.
He brings me to the closet and pulls out a white cotton dress with frilly lace around the sleeves and a thick pink satin belt that ties around my waist.
“Here you go. Let’s get you dressed.”
My body goes on autopilot as he maneuvers me into the dress. It’s what’s expected. I’m not to help or stop him. Just let him do it. He brings out two pink ribbons and gathers my hair into pigtails, tying them off behind my ear so my hair drapes over my chest. There’s a spot on the wall, a small speck of something, I focus on. My body’s moved like the good dolly they built, but they aren’t inside my head. I can hide here.
“There. That’s better.” He smiles at me, and my stomach lurches, ready to expel the hotdog from earlier.
“Let’s see what the viewers have to say. Why don’t you sit here?” He puts me on the bed, bending my legs and fixing the skirt of my dress until it’s situated properly. He pulls my hands to my lap and folds them.
It’s in these moments, when I’m not supposed to be anything other than what he makes me, I can almost tolerate this. Here, I’m just a thing. Not a person. Not alive. No feelings or thoughts. Here, I escape into myself and hide while the rest of me gets moved and touched…and hurt.
“Oooh.” Bossman laughs with glee. Whatever the suggestion was, he’s happy about it. The bed dips as he sits beside me. I curl my toes as a way to keep from looking at him.
His pudgy fingers fumble with the buttons on the front of my dress. After working the long line of them open, he pulls the fabric apart, exposing my bare breasts to the camera facing me. Can they see my face? Will someone see me and recognize me? Know I don’t belong here and send help?
I want to scream into the camera, beg someone to help me, to turn off the feed and call the police, but I’ve been warned about what happens to dolls who talk. They showed me, made me watch when one of the girls before me tried. Sally. That was her name.
Sally screamed for help, begged and pleaded so much, the viewers were annoyed. They made sure she never did it again. After they removed her tongue, they took her away from me in the cellar. I don’t know where Sally went, but she wasn’t with me anymore, and I was alone.
I stare at the blinking red light.
Will I go away now that Ken is here? Will he find my cell empty and be all alone here like I was after Sally?
Cold fingers pinch my nipples, and my attention jerks back to Bossman. He doesn’t relent, no matter how quiet I stay, how stoic I remain.
He pinches harder, and I squeak.
He laughs.
It’s a game. It’s always a game with him.
“Such a good dolly.” He kneads my breasts in his fat hands while he looks back over the monitor. “Ah, that’s a great idea.” He gets up from the bed. The shift of weight jostles the mattress. I press my hands against it to keep still.
Bossman turns the computer toward me and put his hands on his hips. “They want to see your little asshole. Turn around and spread your cheeks for the cameras.” He gives his directions with a steel tone. He must have turned the microphone off. He likes to keep things light on his end while we’re live. It’s just him, playing with his doll. Nothing horrifying to see here…except everything is horrifying—and people pay for it. I’ve heard Bossman talk about money, about how some viewers will pay top dollar for special scenarios. The more degrading, the more violent and humiliating, the better. For him.
“Dolly.” His voice grates over my ears. I can’t hesitate, yet lead fills my veins, turning my muscles to stone. It’s no worse than anything he’s made me do before, but my heart races, my lungs won’t fill. Bend over and open my cheeks. Show strangers everything. It’s not for them to see.