Upon greater inspection, the room isn’t as devoid of guests as Amaya first presumed. Taking her time to look around on her languid trek to the altar, she discovers several couples and groups camouflaged by the abundance of curated foliage. Men in all manner of animal-inspired costumes conversing intimately or outright fondling young feminine bodies. Dread settles in the pit of Amaya’s stomach as she makes her way onto the altar, dragging clumps of grass and moss onto the platform with her high heels. Graceful, she is not.
Coated in bronze paint, Noelle’s skin glitters beneath the soft lights. Jewels adorn her and refract the light raining down from the vines behind her throne. Long hair, dark as pitch drapes her seductive and exposed body. The color of Noelle’s eyes—the only visible part of her face—is undistinguishable behind her solid, gilded mask of bronze, gold, and emerald green. Though Amaya despises Noelle based on all she’s heard about the woman, she can admit to feeling threatened and impressed in equal measure by her imposing manner.
Noelle appraises her, then has her turn in a circle to get a better view before she retrieves one of her cushions and tosses it to the side of her throne with pointed indifference. A twirl of her wrist commands Amaya to sit on the cushion and await further instructions. Amaya anticipated a conversation or even a strip search—but somehow, it’s this casual dominance that feels a bridge too far. The temptation to hesitate, though present, is fleeting in the face of Noelle’s authoritative aura.
Amaya kneels on the cushion with her hands on her knees and waits for the inevitable interrogation. It helps that she’s here for the sole purpose of crossing bridges and burning them once across. A little submission and degradation are the least she can expect from the evening. Regardless of her determination, her heart hammers wildly—a terrifying rhythm she can feel on the side of her neck, the backs of her knees, bends of her elbows, and the base of her spine. Sweat slides toward her eye beneath her ill-ventilated mask, her only defense to blink hard and blow air upward to jostle it away.
“Sorry about the costume,” Amaya whispers, unable to endure the debilitating awkwardness any longer.
Noelle turns her head and sets her piercing gaze on Amaya. “Be quiet, and be still.” She returns her attention to the rest of the room.
Amaya recognizes that voice. It takes her back in time, slams her into the back of some asshole’s busted Caprice, and presses a knife to her lips.
Seven Years Earlier, 2013
Santa Monica, California
Amaya was thirteen when she lost her dad. Murdered.
She was fourteen when she lost her mom. Murdered.
At fifteen she ran away from her aunt’s house in the Bronx and hitchhiked to California. It took six weeks for her to run out of cash and turn her first trick.
By seventeen, she had a pimp and a drug habit.
She didn’t fear danger. Tragedy had found her all her life and no amount of fear or precaution had prevented it.
“My dick’s hard, baby. Why don’t you suck it for me?” he said.
Amaya chuckled as she took another hit off the pipe. “You serious? It’s been a long motherfuckin’ night, man.” She eyed him sidelong. He wasn’t completely unattractive, despite his yellowing teeth and gaunt features, but Amaya had little interest in men or sex. It was a job, no more, and no less. Most of the time she couldn’t achieve orgasm. “This shit ain’t worth some neck.”
He leaned into her space and placed one of his pale, raw-knuckled hands on her exposed knee. “You say that after you already smoked.” His fingers curved toward her inner thigh and slid up her skirt to finger her panties. “How about you let me fuck your pussy then? I’ll do all the work.” He pushed his fingertips between her folds through the fabric. Dry fingers on dry underwear and thrust in dry pussy.
Amaya tried to push him away and escape his fingers. “Fuck you, bitch.”
Instead of releasing her, his fingertips dug in forcefully and he waited until she stopped struggling. “Wait ‘til it hits, baby,” he said. “You’re gonna want this dick in your little teen pussy. I swear.” He jabbed at her clit through her underwear. “Fuckin’ whore.”
She hissed as his fingers withdrew and glared at him. “You better calm down,” she warned, more aggravated than terrified. Rape was a constant risk, and it was far from the first time she’d had to deal with these types of assholes. She reached for her keys with the vial of pepper spray attached. “I will spray you.”
“Alright, alright,” he placated her with his hands up. “My bad, baby girl. I can wait.” He smiled lecherously.
Amaya didn’t feel right. The meth should be bringing her up, not down, but Amaya was devoid of her typical rush. Instead, her head felt light and her thoughts slow and disjointed. It wasn’t a bad feeling, if anything, a sense of calm and peace covered her like a blanket. She blinked hard, searching for the trail of her thoughts, trying to catch them as they floated away.
“What?” she slurred. “What’dya do?”
“Nothing, baby. Don’t you worry.” He leaned into her space again, easily pushing away her hand with the pepper spray until he had her reclined in the front seat of his Caprice. “We’re gonna have a little fun, that’s all.” A bright light blinded Amaya. “Smile for the camera, sweetheart.” Minutes or hours passed, she couldn’t be sure. Pain flared between her legs and fire raced down her legs. “Don’t need these, do you?”
“Fu-fuckyou.” She winced, unable to discern what the hell he was doing. She heard the distinct sound of his camera clicking. Beneath the floating surface of her consciousness, a fount of humiliation and rage began to surge to the forefront. As he brought her knees toward her chest, she channeled her fury and kicked wildly. “Ayudame!” she shouted, shocked to learn she was in tears. It wasn’t like her to cry. “Help me! Get the fuck off me! Help! Help!”
He punched the left side of her face with a closed fist, and she wailed. His weight fell heavy upon her, squeezing the air from her lungs.
“Shhh,” he growled and pulled a knife from his back pocket. He pressed it to her lips. “Stuck up little whore, aren’t you? Think you’re too good or something?” The edge of the blade split her sensitive flesh and he took sadistic delight in Amaya’s genuine horror and screams. He sliced diagonally across her face. “Let’s see how picky you are when you aren’t so pretty.”
“Papa,” she cried.
“You want your daddy, baby?” His fetid breath assaulted her nose as he spoke and sucked at her bloodied lips. “I’ll be your daddy.”
She didn’t think; she reacted. Her teeth sank deep into the muscle of his tongue and retained a squirming glob of it as he screamed and pulled away from her gory mouth.
The shock gave her a brief respite, time enough to spit out the foreign tissue and clear some of the blood clogging her throat. He was on her again soon enough, this time with his bare hands wrapped around her throat. His blood and hers blinded her. His inhuman screams reverberated in her skull to the rapid beat of her pulse. Amaya felt certain her death was imminent. If there was comfort to be had it was in the idea of seeing her parents again—if she made it to Heaven. Amaya laughed hysterically. It was fitting in a way—murdered like her father, and like her mother. They were a family born to die.