I didn’t take the medicine the next night. Nurse Dalio was back, which was a welcomed change from Nurse Oleander. I was leery going into tonight since I hadn’t been touched on the previous one. We’d received one more visitor, who had also taken a liking to Mallory—it was a time when being popular could backfire. I was still comforting her when our second visitor arrived and forced us apart.

Now all the drugs were out of my system and we’d spent the early evening together in relative silence, the mental image of me holding her trembling body while she cried seemed like a strange dream or some event from an alternate universe. It was still hard to believe it had really happened—that it had been me providing the comfort.

We went through the motions for our free time. Mallory didn’t talk to the new friends she was making while we spent our designated time in the Common Room; she resigned herself to simply vegging out in front of the television, fitting in a little too well with the other overmedicated zombies.

It wasn’t until we were alone in our room that she finally spoke to me. “I didn’t thank you for what you did for me last night,” she said, lying in bed, curled up on her side. Her eyes looked haunted, almost glazed over as she stared at the far wall.

“You don’t have to,” I said. “I bet you would have done the same for me.”

“Probably not,” she admitted, never shying away from candor.

“Well, that’s okay too. But I do want to get out of here at some point, so maybe some civility will be the first step to making that happen.” I was seated on my bed. The curtains were open and I leaned my head back against the glass.

“I want to get out of here just as badly as you do. It’s just… hard.”

“Why the hell do you hate me so much? I seriously don’t know what I did to you. I can understand some people don’t mesh—and I can see that with us—but the open hostility has to come from somewhere.”

“You seriously don’t know?” Mallory gave a wry laugh like she didn’t believe me, as if what she was going to reveal was common knowledge.

“I seriously don’t,” I challenged, hoping she could feel the glare I was giving.

The silence stretched out for at least a minute, and when it seemed she was choosing her words for a response, the door opened. Nurse Dalio entered with two tall and handsome men in gray pinstriped suits. They had very similar features, seemingly no hair on their entire bodies, and reddish eyes. I would have gotten gooseflesh at the mere sight of them on the street—but in here, they scared me to death.

“These are the Pissarro brothers,” Nurse Dalio said, her face beaming as always. “I know you’ll show them a good time.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to have any outsiders,” Mallory protested, sitting up and backing against the wall.

“It just so happens they are very special guests who have quite particular tastes. That would be you, my dear,” she said, looking straight at me. “We all have to make compromises and sacrifices.”

I felt my heart stop, a part of me hoping I would die before these monsters could sink their claws into me.

“Please…” I pleaded. “There must be something I can do.”

“There is,” Nurse Dalio said. “You can satisfy them, which is why you’re here.” And with that she closed the door, locking us in the room with the Pissarro brothers.

“What a beautiful scar you have,” one of them said, his sick eyes fixated on my face. “It’s like a bolt of lightning streaking across a bright sky.”

“No; it’s like a great tree, extending its roots into the soil,” the other said.

“I would love to see your other scars. Show them to us,” the first one crooned, removing his suit coat, his tie, then unbuttoning his shirt.

The other man removed his shoes and socks, then his suit coat and tie as well.

I glanced to Mallory in full panic—unable to move; unable to speak. My heart had gone from a dead stop to ready to explode.

Within seconds, they were sitting on either side of me, one examining my arms, the other caressing my feet, then moving up my calves. The man moving up my arm pulled up the shirt sleeve, finding my shoulder scar, then ripped my shirt open to get a clear view.

“This one’s almost as lovely as the one on your cheek,” he said, pressing his lips to my skin. Then the tips of his fangs moved down my shoulder, tearing at my flesh.

I screamed out in pain and felt blood trickling down my arm. He grabbed me by the neck to hold me steady, then licked at the blood as it continued to flow.

The man holding my leg brought my foot to his lips, and I felt his fangs taunting my skin as well. He too didn’t bite into me, but ripped at my skin, opening the flesh, with none of the numbing and nearly euphoric effects of a true vampire bite. Once the wound in my foot was open, he sucked on it with a fiendish fervor.

The world disappeared as tears blurred my vision and flowed as much as my blood from multiplying wounds.

“I’m sorry they have to heal you in the morning,” one man whispered into my ear. “We would make you so much more beautiful.” He removed the bandage on my hand—which wasn’t supposed to be touched—and gleefully gasped at the sight of another injury.

His words and pleasure at my imperfections brought about more sobbing, which only seemed to fuel their enjoyment. I yearned to pass out, but so much adrenaline was pumping through me, it was somehow keeping me conscious. It may only have been minutes, but the torture felt like it extended for hours. By the time they were through with me, I was surprised to have any blood left. Some had flowed onto the sheets, but the two men had diligently licked up most of it.

Once they peeled their sweating bodies away from me and got dressed, I was completely delirious. The blood was drying up, my tears had dried up too, and I couldn’t move an inch. All I could do was lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling—though not seeing it at all.

Sometime later, I felt someone else joining me in bed and waited for the torment to begin again. A face nuzzled against my neck and I anticipated the sting of another set of fangs piercing my skin.

But more pain didn’t come. The warm body trembling beside me didn’t attack but simply lay with me. I tried to make sense of the room—tried to bring my vision back into focus—then realized. It was Mallory. She didn’t say a word, but again, she was crying. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything either, so I closed my eyes, leaned my head against hers, and tried to drift away, out of this nightmare.