Selena

 

“I wouldn’t mind bouncing those around,” one of the men says, handling me roughly as he secures me to the dripping rusty pipe.

 

“You can always tell the whores from the way they moan,” the second man replies. “Listen to the way she moans here.” He tugs on the rope harshly, making me moan in pain. Then he ties me securely to the pipe, linking cuffs with the other man so that my arms are completely secured. “See,” he goes on. “She fuckin’ loves it. Don’t you, sweetheart?” He brings his face close to mine. He reeks of marijuana and whisky, his teeth stained yellow and most of them missing anyhow. “I asked you a question, little lamb.”

 

“Please,” I whisper. “I just want to go home—”

 

“It’s a shame we can’t play with you none,” the man says, smiling. “I can think of a hundred things I’d like to do to you right this second. Are you a real whore? You look like a real whore.”

 

On impulse, I spit. I spit hard, and forcefully, right into the man’s sneering face.

 

He leaps back and wipes at his face with his sleeve, and then jumps at me and grabs my neck. He hocks, and then makes as if to spit back at me.

 

“Wait a second,” I say, voice rasping. “Didn’t you say you’re not allowed to play with me?”

 

“She’s right,” the other man whispers. “If we hurt her, the boss’ll freak.”

 

He digs his fingernails into my throat, staring at me with eyes which want to do damage, and then sighs and stands up. “She’ll get what’s coming to her,” he says. “These whores always do.”

 

They leave me, slamming the door behind them. I let out a pent-up breath once the men are gone. I don’t know what got into me there. My rebellious spirit, the one ignited with Clint, I suppose. But it was dangerous and stupid, a pointless risk. What if he didn’t care about his boss’s instructions? What if he hurt me anyway? I let my head rest against the wall, closing my eyes. Fear assails me every second, my heartbeat showing no sign of slowing down, tears constantly threatening to pour down my cheeks.

 

I open my eyes and look around the room. It’s lit with a naked bulb which hangs from a wire. The room was once a bathroom but all the fixtures have been violently removed, along with some of the wall tiles so that I can see the pipes and the in-between space. I try and pull on the pipe but I’m too weak. I feel tired from last night and my belly’s growling urgently for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner … I realize I have no idea what time it is.

 

I decide to try and calm down. If I can’t get free, then at least I can try and approach this coldly. The last thing I need to do in this situation is let my emotions run away with me. I know all too well how crippling emotions can be. I know all too well how they can turn a person into less than a person, into a sniveling wreck without the semblance of a backbone. I need to be strong, I tell myself. But telling myself doesn’t work. I’m still on the brink of tears and my heartbeat is still hurting my ribs.

 

I close my eyes and envision a scene. I see me and Dante sitting on a porch in sunlight which could never exist in real life, because this sunlight is brighter than any earth-bound light. It’s heavenly sunlight, the sort which exists only in fantasies. We’re sitting in rocking chairs—yes, the steady rhythm soothing us—and in my arms I’m holding a bundle of life. Boy or girl? Girl, I decide on instinct. The baby is a girl, and for miles and miles around there’s nothing. All is peaceful. We’re alone and safe and warm and happy. I kiss the girl on the forehead and whisper, “Hello, Jasmin. How’d’you do?”

 

Dante leans over and gives her a kiss of his own. It’s difficult to visualize every detail of Dante because I’ve known him for such a short amount of time, but I can visualize most of him, and I find that he’s the most peaceful part of the fantasy. I watch this man I don’t truly know and my heartbeat slows and the tears recede. I lose myself in the dream, smiling and taking slow, measured breaths. Once I’ve calmed down, I open my eyes.

 

The room hasn’t changed, but I’m able to look at it with fresh eyes. The door is thin, flimsy, and doesn’t look like it’s meant for that frame. It’s wooden and jammed in at an unnatural angle. I think a few good kicks could take it off its hinges. I’m glad I’m not a skinny girl; my legs could do some work on that door. Then I look at the pipe again. The pipe itself is solid, but the screws which hold the pipe to the wall are exposed and brown with rust.

 

I stretch across, ignoring the way the handcuffs bite into my wrists, and try to bring my mouth to the screws. The thought of putting them in my mouth sickens me, but the thought of being killed or raped sickens me more. And though I want to be with Dante again—I know that without even having to think about it—I can’t trust that he’ll ride in and save me. I’ve lived too long with violence and pain to believe in fairytales.

 

I stretch for a few minutes, chafing my wrists raw, before finding the right angle. When I bite down on the rusty screw I want to be sick. I fight the urge and grip it with my teeth, and then twist my neck around to turn the screw. Any other screw and my teeth would slide off, but here I find grip in the rust. Flakes of rust scrape away and land in my mouth, the taste of metal filling me. But I keep on, twisting, twisting. Slowly the screw starts to loosen.

 

I go at it for five minutes and then footsteps pound down the hallway outside my door. Leaning back quickly, I spit on the floor to get rid of the rust taste, and then resume my previous position. The screw isn’t loose yet, only nearly. If they notice … But I can’t look shifty or suspicious. I have to appear as what they expect to see: a terrified woman.

 

When the door opens and the men step in, it isn’t difficult to appear terrified. All my hard-earned calm drifts away. I hear myself sobbing and moaning and begging as they uncuff me from the pipe and drag me to my feet. They’re going to rape me. They’re going to destroy me. I kick out but they grab me and hold me firmly, five men in total, carrying me like a ragdoll through narrow hallways.

 

They drag me through into a room I do not expect to find in this damp, dingy place. There’s a large, presidential-style desk in the middle with a comfy armchair sitting on one side. The walls are wallpapered and covered with art paintings: most scenes of valleys and rivers and forests. A red lamp lights the room from the corner, and the air smells faintly of orange peel. The only thing which ruins the effect is the metal chair on the other side of the desk, which the men take me to. They cuff my hands behind my back and my legs to each chair leg and then step away to the walls, watching silently.

 

I suppose I have been this scared before, perhaps when Clint held a knife to my throat or held me over the staircase and screamed at me that he’d throw me down. But just because I’ve faced fear, it doesn’t lessen its effects. That’s the biggest fallacy I ever read or hear about people who have felt extreme terror. Maybe for some people it hardens them like blacksmith’s metals. But I know what this fear can lead to, and I’ll do anything to escape it.

 

“What do you want from me?” I say, turning around and looking at the closest man.

 

He stares at me blankly.

 

I look to another. “What do you want?” I plead. “Tell me. Just tell me!” I fight back tears, fail, and then cry pitifully. I hate myself for weeping in front of these men. “Just tell me!”

 

“You better stop talking,” a man behind me hisses.

 

“Shut up!”

 

“What?” the man snaps. “She’s getting on my nerves.”

 

“Wait for the boss.”

 

“Is he ever coming?”

 

“What, you’re a big tough guy now? You’re going to badmouth the boss?”

 

“I certainly hope not.” The man who enters looks completely out of place. The other men are gruff and rough-looking, the sort of men who hang around on street corners catcalling women. This man wears a dark red suit with a purple tie, holding a silver wolf-pommel cane, his shoes so shiny they reflect the light. His goatee is meticulously crafted and his bald head is slick, as if polished. And then he places an old-style gangster hat on his head, as blood-red as his suit. He’s around fifty years old. He reads my expression, and then laughs. “Yes, I understand, my dear. It’s a shock, isn’t it?”

 

“I …” I close my mouth. I don’t know what to say.

 

He laughs again, and then drops into the giant armchair. He folds his legs and taps his cane against the desk. Tap-tap-tap, a constant backdrop to our conversation. “You appear surprised,” he says. “You expected some big ape of a man with tattoos covering his eyes or some such thing.”

 

“I didn’t know what to expect,” I say quietly. Surely I can reason with this man. He’s different from the others. He’s not an animal. Surely he won’t let these men hurt me. But then, he is here in this horrid place.

 

“And now what do you think?” He waves a hand at himself. His fingernails are manicured. “Are you impressed?”

 

“You don’t wear a patch,” I mutter.

 

He grins. “Oh, but I do.” He shows me his cufflinks. Some ghost-type figure and the tiny words Chosen Wraiths are engraved into the metal. It hurts my eyes reading them. “I’m not a big fan of leather, you see.”

 

I keep expecting one of the tough men behind me to leap forward and beat this man up and take his position. I can’t imagine them enjoying serving under this man. If they are anything what they seem like—ignorant, mean men—then surely they hate this flamboyant man. And yet they stand there, statue-still and statue-quiet, watching.

 

“I’m afraid we can’t chat all day, dear,” he says. “My name is the Gentleman; that is how you will address me if you have need to use my name. Anyway,” and he waves a manicured hand, “I want to know about Dante. He’s been a pain in my side for a number of years now. Men like Dante never know how to respect their betters. They’re always reaching, you understand? Never content. I suppose I admire it. I didn’t get to where I am by staying still. But if he’s reaching for my position, what does he expect me to do? So tell me about him. Where does he hold his meetings? Who does he meet with? Does he have any secret safe houses we won’t know about? Well, come on.”

 

“I …” My mouth is dry. I don’t know what to say. I know nothing about Dante’s business. I didn’t even know he was a part of any of this before today. I didn’t even know him before last night.

 

“Well?” Suddenly the Gentleman leaps to his feet and walks around the desk, tapping his cane against the floor. He leans down close to me. This close, I can see that two of his back teeth are plated gold. “You are obviously curious why these men follow me. Look at them. Strong men, lethal men, powerful men. And they follow me? I can see the confusion in your eyes; I am very good at reading eyes, girl. I won’t tell you why except to say that these are the sort of men who wouldn’t follow a man who hasn’t done what they’ve done, or much worse. Do you understand?” He leans forward, bringing his face close to mine, his breath brushing against me. “I will shove this cane up your tight—” He cuts short, returning to his chair. But he doesn’t sit down, just stands near it. “The next time I question you, you better have some answers. Or you might discover that even the Gentleman isn’t always a gentleman.”

 

He paces from the room. The tapping of his cane echoes down the hallway.

 

The men take off my handcuffs and carry me down the hallway again. I’m worried they’ll chain me to a different pipe—there are many exposed—but they cuff me to the same two pipes. The men are about to leave when one kneels down. It’s the one whose face I spit in.

 

“Stupid slut,” he whispers, and then hocks and spits right into my eye.

 

I just manage to close my eyes in time, but there’s nothing I can do but let it drip down my face.

 

Once the door is shut, I lean across to the screw and grip it with my teeth.