Brook

The first thing I feel is the rolling in my stomach, like I went on a three-day bender and need to hurl. Purge it from my system. The next is that I’m completely naked. And cold. Probably the only reason I haven’t thrown up yet. The cold is keeping the nausea at bay. I’m in a small room, maybe a walk-in closet? There is plush carpet on the floor and long shelves running along the tops of the walls, complete with rods for hanging clothes. Other than the sliver of light running along the bottom of the door, there’s no other source of light. My eyes dart around, hopeful to find a light socket, but my hopes are dashed when I find it and the socket doesn’t house a bulb I could use for defense.

Pushing myself to a sitting position, I wince when the tenderness of my limbs protests the movement. Bringing my hands to my face, I see the reason for the tenderness. My wrists have been tied. Dark purple bruises run along my skin, and when I look down to my ankles, I find the same. I would have to have been tied for some time to have created this much coloring, wouldn’t I?

Heavy footsteps thud outside the door, until they come into view, blocking off the natural light as they step in front of the closed door. Then the doorknob turns until more light floods inside, and I flinch at the sudden brightness. “I’ll be damned, wore off. Thought I may have killed you, princess,” a man carrying a brown paper bag says as he steps into the small room.

“Who are you?” I ask, looking up at him while shielding my face with my hand to get a better view. When I do, I nearly choke on my gasp.

“Does my face bother you, princess?” he hisses. “Got your daddy and his club to blame for this.” He gestures to the half of his face that’s covered in melted skin, like that guy from the Batman movie my brother made me watch. Two face. One side completely void of scars, the other burnt beyond recognition.

“N-N-N-N—No. Sorry. It’s just…I wasn’t expecting it,” I stutter, unsure how he’ll react. Maybe he’ll present a coin and flip it to decide my fate.

“Believe me, I wasn’t either,” he says, stepping closer. “Food.” He holds up the paper bag I forgot he had in his hand and tosses it down onto the floor. It lands with a thunk. My stomach takes that moment to roll, and my hand flies to my mouth, trying to keep myself from getting sick. “Christ’s sake. Get the fuck up,” he growls, reaching down to pull me up by the hair. “Don’t be puking on the floor. I don’t want to have to smell that shit.” His fingers dig into my scalp as he leads me to a bathroom and pushes me inside. I barely make it before I start turning into the toilet. Acid fills my throat as nothing more than dry heaves comes up. “That’s the side effects. Should pass in a couple hours. Take a shower, might help a little. I shall return,” he singsongs, and I glance back toward him as he walks away. I do my best to shake off the nausea and wipe at my mouth with a few squares of the small roll of toilet paper. The bathroom looks new, like it was possibly remodeled or just built. The thick smell lingering in the air I now realize is paint. New paint. There’s a vanity, no mirror, no shower curtain, one towel, and a small stack of clothes. A shiver rolls through me as I dive toward the clothes. A t-shirt and some shorts. Both mens. Probably his. At least he’s granting me something to hide under.

Through the open door, I find a room. Also new. Complete with a bed and nothing else. The bed doesn’t even have any sheets or blankets. Just the mattress. No frame or baseboard. Something to sleep on. Will he make me go back in the closet? Deciding not to think much into it, I go back to the bathroom and shut the door, but when I go to lock it, I find no knob, only an empty hole where there should be a latch. “Whatever,” I grumble to myself and go for the shower, flicking it on, then waiting for moment for it to turn warm before getting in. The heat is welcome on my cool skin, but also causes me to itch with the sudden rush of blood to the surface. There isn’t any soap to wash with, so the shower is short. By the time I’m dried off and pulling on my borrowed clothes, I hear the door to the room open, then the bathroom door swings open. “Go get on the bed.”

I let the shirt fall, the hem landing nearly at my knees. “W-W-W-What? No, please.” I shake my head and step back, not getting any farther from him because he comes at me, gripping my hair again and dragging me to the mattress where he tosses me down. Tears fill my eyes as I plead, begging him to stop, to not do wherever he’s about to do to me.

“Shut it, girl. I have some unfinished business and you are going to help me aid in that task,” he snaps. “Now, we’ll start off slow, just a short video. That’s all. You just need to state your name for the camera. Easy as pie.” He grins. “I’ll even let you keep your clothes on for this one.” For this one. Does that mean he has plans for me that involve no clothes? I shudder at the thought.

“Please. I have nothing to do with the club. I live in California. I only came back for Gin’s funeral. Please,” I try to explain, but he shakes his head.

“Oh no, princess. You are lying. I know who you’re fucking. You should be ashamed of yourself. What would Daddy Gin think about you fucking the Sergeant at Arms?” He lets out a sardonic laugh, and my insides clench in fear. “Now, state your name for the camera.”