Page 1 of Dolly

One

DOLLY

Ablast of light drowns me in my cell. I scramble to the corner, as if that will keep them away. Huddling in the corner, dirty, naked, cold, shivering against the cinderblock walls…it’s not a turn off—not to them.

“There’s a good girl,” a familiar voice cracks through the silence. I cover my ears, pressing my hands to them as though it will drown him out.

It never has.

Not the other dozens of times he’s come for me.

“Come now, Dolly. It’s time to play for the camera.” The cell door creaks as it opens, and my body stiffens. The casual slap of his boots on the concrete floor sends ice through my veins.

I can’t do this.

Not again.

Please.

Begging doesn’t work.

It only makes him mad.

Still, I scream the pleas in my head, over and over again.

Maybe God will hear this time.

Maybe he’ll send help.

Maybe I’ll simply die and this will finally be over.

“Up you go.” His clammy hand wraps around my upper arm. “Someone needs a bath first.” He sniffs my hair. It’s tangled and matted from last night. The man made a mess, and no one cleaned me up.

“Let’s go.” He drags me to my feet and hauls me from my cell.

“No!” The words fall out before my mind blocks them. I yank and pull, kick at his fat shins, but I get nowhere.

“Enough!” he yells.

Another bright light blinds me. Stars and sunrays dance in my vision, the sharp pain in my jaw lost among the aches of my muscles.

I crumble in his grip. The fight, what pathetic amount I had, is gone.

I’ve been here too long to be so stupid.

My feet shuffle along the floor. I let him shove me into the stall.

“They’re wanting a little girl today. Your specialty,” he says as he turns on the water. Ice cold drops hit my face. A shudder breaks the tension in my back. “A few bows, some pigtails—you’ll do real good.” He shoves a bar of soap in my hand. It’s filthy, just like everything else here, covered in the dirt and grime of those who came before me.

“Won’t you, Dolly?” he presses for an answer, like I can make my throat work to produce anything other than a sob.

“Won’t you.” His hand rests on the coil of rope he keeps hooked to his belt.

I don’t want the rope.

“Yes. I’ll be a good dolly,” I promise. “A good dolly,” I say again as I run the bar of soap over my aching breasts and between my legs.

Tears well up in my eyes, but they get lost in the spray of the shower.

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