Page 8 of Nine

“Rule number one. I like my bitches quiet, understand? When I talk, you listen.”

I can hear him rustling with something else. He then rolls me over and puts his boot on my lower back to hold me in place.

“Rule number two. Everything you have is mine from now on.”

His boot is planted so hard on me; it feels like my back might break. I’m praying and wishing that the people in the two rooms next to us, would hear me, but I know they can’t. He then kicks me in the side with his free foot. I yell through the tape.

“Let me show you what I do to bitches who take my money.”

He begins to hit me on my back multiple times, with what feels like a belt. The burning pain stings with every lash. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I can’t breathe. I can’t see straight and I feel like I may pass out, but of course he won’t let me off that easy. Just as my eyes shut, he wraps the belt around my throat, tightens it, and begins to drag me around the room. I’m struggling to breathe through my nose and wishing to die at this moment, just so I don’t have to suffer anymore.

“What’s my name?” he asks, as he removes the tape from my mouth for a minute. He closes the belt tighter on my throat. I’m coughing and gagging on my own saliva.

“I said, what’s my name?” he repeats.

“I don’t fucking know,” I manage to grunt out.

“Daddy. You call me big daddy from now on. Understand?”

He closes the tape over my mouth again. He picks me up and slams me on the bed. He’s standing above me. My vision is blurry. He’s holding something up in the air. It’s sharp. It’s metal. I’m blinking fast in an attempt to clear my eyes. Shit, it’s a knife. It’s probably mine.

“If you run or hide from me ever, I will cut your fucking tongue out. You are mine. I own you. Say it with me now. ‘I belong to Daddy.’” I slowly shake my head. “I said, say it,” he yells.

I remain quiet. My throat has completely closed up. I can no longer feel my fingertips.

“Oh, you’re a hard-headed whore, huh? Maybe you need a little more punishment or maybe I should just kill you and make it easier on myself,” he says.

He crawls over me and straddles my hips, and covers my mouth with his hand. He then takes the knife and digs just the tip into my side. I release a muffled scream. He turns the handle of the knife back and forth so that the tip of the blade is twisting into my skin. I can’t take it anymore. I silently pray for my death. Kill me. Just kill me already, I beg in my head. That’s when I hear a pop, blood splashes across my face and the pimp comes crashing down on me. I suddenly feel the weight of his body being rolled off me. Tears are pouring hard down my face. I look up to see what appears to be a gun pointed at me. I start to cry harder. The blurry figure rips the tape off my mouth.

“Who are you?” he asks.

My brain is not functioning well enough to even respond correctly.

“Drugs. He. Drugged. Me.” I push out, in hopes that what I’m saying is coherent. I’m hoping I’m forming the right words. Can he even comprehend me?

The man pulls me up from the bed into his arms. My legs bend and my head falls back.

“Who are you?” he repeats, as he lifts my head back up. This time the words echo in my ears.

I look at his neck, which is blurry. I try to read the tattoo. It takes me a few seconds but my vision clears just long enough to read the word consumed. It’s the guy from the elevator.

“I. Know. You.” I push out again.

My head crashes forward to rest on his chest and my eyes look down. I notice streaks of blood on my outer thigh.

“I’m…bleeding.” I murmur. “Am I going to die?”

“Not today,” I faintly hear him say, just as my entire body gives out and my eyes close.

***

I wake to what sounds like knocking. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust and focus. I look over to see a man sitting in a wood chair nearby. He’s tapping his gun on a table and gazing straight at me. I stare down to realize I’m lying in a bed in just panties and a bra. There are bruises up and down my body and scratches all over my hands. Several of my nails are broken and dry blood drops are sprinkled across my chest, arms and stomach. Everything hurts. It feels like somebody beat me with a baseball bat and that for the life of me I can’t remember what happened. I panic and try to sit up. My heart races and my breathing quickens.

“Don’t,” he demands. I stop moving for a second, but ignore his warning and raise up.

“I said, don’t. You’ll bust your stitches.” His eyes burrow into me.

“Eat shit,” I respond, as I back up closer to the headboard.

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