Pleaaase, stop!
Please, I’m begging you!
Please… please… please…
Has she grown tired of the word? Does it sound funny to her now? When a word is said so many times, it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore. It sounds like gibberish-a sound comprised of pitch and tones that hold no real meaning. A construct that humans have formed to communicate their wants and needs. But what do words fucking matter when no one listens?
Her eyes meet mine again, a glossy sheen over the surface of them. And there it is. Shame. Embarrassment. Sorrow.
She made it out unscathed, and it looks like survivor’s guilt has been gnawing at her insides for the past few days.
I deflate, berating myself for taking my anger out on someone who doesn’t deserve it. Jillian is just trying to survive like the rest of us. None of this is her fault.
Then, Sydney walks in, all high and mighty, and my unwarranted anger towards Jillian redirects itself towards the person who actually deserves it. She acts as if she didn’t spend an entire day screaming in a cellar.
Biting my tongue, I walk over to the vanity next to Jillian, my movements mechanical. My bones feel like rusty hinges as I reach for a bright pink sponge and concealer. It’s going to take mounds of it to hide the distress, but I settle with a few dollops to start.
My hand trembles as I apply chemicals to my face that are meant to hide my pain. Bethany and Phoebe talk quietly in the background, whispers full of fear and comfort.
Bad, bad girls.
I consider listening in on their conversation, but I’m distracted when Sydney starts tearing off her clothes until she’s naked. Jillian and I have a clear view of her through our vanity mirrors. We both pause, hands suspended in the air as we stare at the unhinged girl behind us, now picking through the clothes on the rack.
Bethany and Phoebe’s whispers taper off, and soon the entire room is disturbingly enraptured by her.
I can’t help but watch her as she hums, takes a shirt off the rack, and observes it as if she’s a regular girl shopping in a fancy boutique. Entirely unbothered by the eyes burning into her exposed skin.
Forcing my attention away, I glance at Jillian. She’s now staring hard at herself, most likely trying to avoid Sydney’s naked form reflected in the mirror.
“You have any advice?” I ask, my voice weak and hoarse from all the screaming.
I watch her freeze from the corner of my eye. She collects herself and then resumes blending her concealer, clearing her throat.
“Cover your tracks,” she says quietly, her Russian accent prominent. She has a beautiful voice, and Rocco’s friends thinks so, too. “And run only when necessary. It isn’t about how far you can get; it’s about making sure they never find you. You can run for hours, and you’ll always lead them right to you.”
“They can’t get you if they don’t know where you are,” I mutter aloud. The words come out raspy and broken, but I don’t bother trying to repeat myself. “What about the traps?”
“I counted the distance between them the best I could. They’re about thirty feet apart, roughly. They’re uniform, so the hunters know how to avoid them.”
I roll my lip between my teeth. “Thank you for helping me.”
She glances at me. “Don’t mention it.”
Literally, or we’ll both be in trouble.
We descend into silence after that. She doesn’t offer any consolation, but it’s not something I would ever want from her. From anyone.
Twenty-five minutes later, we’re all dressed in jeans and long-sleeved shirts. They’ll do virtually nothing to protect us from the elements, and certainly not any metal arrowheads plunging into our bodies at a breakneck speed. But considering we’ll be running on adrenaline, it’s enough to keep our bodies warm.
Francesca’s heels resonate as she climbs the steps, and my system floods with panic, whatever control I was grasping onto slipping. So easily, like my fingers are covered in grease.
“You girls ready?” Her voice is like a punch to the kidneys. I glance at her through the mirror, her eyes perusing each of us, clicking her tongue when she must deem us presentable enough.
“Let’s go. Time to eat, and then we will go over lessons on how to act properly tonight. When night falls, the Culling will begin, and if you pass, you will be required to mingle with our guests afterward.”
Panicked glances are exchanged. Even surprise flashes across Sydney’s gaze.
Bethany raises a trembling hand, requesting permission to speak.
“Are you saying that we have to do the Culling… in the dark?” she asks hesitantly.
Francesca raises an eyebrow. “That’s what I said.”
Then, she turns and walks out, the expectation to follow clear. Slowly, we trail after her, but not before we look at each other with the same panicked expression.
We’re fucked. We’re all fucked.
Single file, ladies. We must be in a uniform line to greet your potential rapists. Make a good impression, and they may be nice when they rape you.
Bursts of loud laughter and deep voices tighten my throat. It feels as if my heart is making an escape attempt, breaking through its gilded cage and clawing its way out of captivity.
Jesus, I think I’m going to pass out.
My legs wobble and my hand catches the railing, clutching it so tightly, my knuckles are bleached white. It’s the only thing keeping me from pitching forward.
“Get it together,” Jillian whispers harshly from behind me.
“Says the girl who wasn’t punished for this three days ago,” I snap back.
She quietens. That was rude of me. But fuck, there’s not a manual on how to rewire my brain to be unafraid and calm. I’m nearly hyperventilating by the time we reach the landing and make our way into the living room where the hunters await.
These men don’t belong here.
This house is run-down, and it doesn’t matter how clean or tidy it is, it still looks like trash. And there are five men standing in the middle of it, wearing Armani suits, diamond-encrusted Rolex watches, and submerged in a shroud of expensive cologne that costs more than my car note.
Their conversation dies as they turn to us, and I realize the different colors in their eyes look the same when they’re all lifeless.
“Francesca,” one calls, drawing out her name with affection. “You’ve got yourself a beautiful lot here.”
The man has short, dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and a deep tan to complement his toned body. He looks like he spends his days lounging on his yacht, most likely shacked up with a supermodel in a skimpy red bikini, who’s blissfully unaware of her sugar daddy’s taste for hunting innocent women for sport.
Lucky her.
His eyes slide to mine and lock, his grin growing as the other three men grunt their agreement. I’m supposed to appear meek and submissive, but it takes me too many seconds to drop my stare to the glossy wooden floor. Courtesy of yours truly. We had to make this place look presentable, and adding a coat of oil apparently accomplishes that feat.
Feeling the burn of his stare caressing my tender skin, I’m now confident that I was too slow. A spark of adrenaline ignites in my blood, worsening my nausea. Without a shadow of a doubt, I know he’s going to be the one hunting me today.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.