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A Cage Without Bars
We are the only two in the room, two strangers connected by a room and a job. She lies still on the bed except for the twitches of her mouth that let me know she's dreaming. Her once soft brown hair is now dark and tangled because it has not seen anything but a greasy pillow and moonlight for so long. She is covered with a cold sweat that glistens in the last of daylight that shines through the tiny window as she tosses in her unawareness.
Suddenly she tenses up and is pulled into a ball near the head of her bed where her arms are tied, the sheet entwined in her legs being pulled out from where it was partially tucked in under the too-small bed. She still writhes against the chains in the middle of the night sometimes, when she thinks everyone is sleeping between jobs. One day her entire arm was covered in blood from cuts on her wrists where she had pulled and twisted against her restraints. They didn't wash it off. She got extra business.
She is awake now, maybe from her unconscious movements or maybe from the sound of the turning door knob. I suppose I'll never know.
The poor girl unsuccessfully tries to stifle a whimper before starting to quiver. She knows she can't escape but she can still speak. "Please, please, please, please, please," she whispers, over and over again as if it will change anything as the man steps into the room and looks at her.
The man isn't very tall but he is definitely wide and his arms are strong. He wears a white muscle shirt that shows off a barbed wire tattoo on his right arm and jeans that are worn and faded, holes in the knees and white patches on the thighs. His shirt is stained with sweat, food, and dirt. Who knows when he last washed his clothes or his body, both are equally disgusting messes.
"Please, please, please," she continues, her voice much louder now. His footsteps towards her shaking body send vibrations through the floor and into my mattress, pounding through my legs and into my lungs.
He reaches her bed and looks down at her with a sneer like she is the dirtiest creature on the planet. She continues to plead with him, saying nothing but that one word. He grabs both of her wrists and squeezes tight. Almost as soon as he touches them she yelps. He has only just cracked open her old scabs but I can already see blood run down her arm and the glistening of plasma and puss from infection. I feel her pain on my own wrists as he releases them again, letting her lie there and bleed. "Ah, shut up," he says, clearly annoyed.
"Please!" she yells, now crying, tears washing the dirt and makeup from her face. Her voice only comes out between sobs and gasps for air but she continues to beg.
"I said shut up!" he roars, finally snapping with intolerance for her weakness and naïvety. He raises his left hand, smiles at the thought of the pain he's about to bring to her, and then brings it down across her face.
The room goes quiet.
The only sound is the resonance of the sharp sound his hand made when it hit her. She has stopped sobbing although tears still stream down her face, somewhat faster than before. Not even a sniffle escapes her.
"Next time," he warns, leaning down to place his face right next to hers, his words bouncing off the pillow and being funneled into her ear, "It will be the right hand."
"Rose!" he grunts, forcing my attention to switch from her to him, "You've got a customer out there waiting! Wipe those damn tears off your face and get out there."
I reach unsuspecting fingers up to my face and press my fingertips to my cheek. Sure enough, they come back wet. I quickly brush the tears away and stand up, heading for the door. "Oh and clean up this tramp when you get back in," Grizzly demands harshly, "She's a fucking mess. Not that you aren't but ain't nobody getting a taste of winter in August unless you both get cleaned up."
I nod at him and rub my nose, the anxiety from not having my evening fix already kicking in.
I laugh at the people who say it's never too late.
