Page 8 of Dolly

The full memory floods me, chasing the blood from my face. I press my forehead against the cool bars of my cell. My thoughts start breaking up, coming in flashes. They must have given me something.

She stirs on the floor, a groan followed by aimless reaching of her arms until she finds the bucket. She hauls herself up enough to vomit into it. Over and over, she wretches. My own stomach twists as her body tightens with the force of it all.

When she’s done, she shoves the bucket away from her and collapses back to the floor. Blood streaks the back of her dress. There are more splatters on the skirt and tears on the sleeves.

“Hey…hey…” I call to her. She doesn’t move. “Hey,” I try, louder.

She pushes herself back up, like a rubber doll wiggling to get upright. Fumbling with her hand, she finds the cot and maneuvers herself to sit against it. Her skirt hikes up. There’s more blood on her legs. My fingers curl around the bars until my knuckles go white.

“Are you okay?” asks the dumbest man alive. Of course she’s not.

She pushes her hair, most of which is loose from the pale pink ribbons, behind her ears, and raises her chin.

Her lips are painted in dark red lipstick smeared in every direction, and her thick black eyelashes are bent awkwardly from her eyelids.

“You shouldn’t talk,” she whispers, then rubs her hands over her lips. Pulling her hand in front of her, she sees the lipstick and frantically swipes at her face.

“Why?” I ask.

“They don’t want us to talk.” She picks up the hem of her dirty dress and wipes her cheeks. More makeup comes off.

“Who?” I ask, looking as best I can down the corridor to the door. “There’s no one here.”

“They can see us.”

A camera points down at us from over the doorframe. The LED lights are too predominant to be infrared, and the plastic dome cover is cheap. It’s not a live camera.

“It’s a dummy camera,” I say. “Just a prop. Not real.” Her eyes flash up to meet mine.

Large, clear blue eyes. Beneath all the paint and false lashes, innocence lingers there.

“They can’t see?”

I smile at the tinge of excitement in her voice, like I just gave her a gift. Privacy, I suppose, is something she’s been lacking here. Among other things.

“No, they can’t see or hear us.” I don’t know about that last part, but I’m not looking to wipe away the light in her expression just yet. “Do you know where we are?”

Her shoulders fall. “No. I was hoping—” She blows out a puff of air.

“I don’t remember much. I wasn’t here, and then I was.” I don’t go into detail of the pure panic and rage at waking up to find myself locked in this fucking cell. She doesn’t need to know how close I came to sobbing like a little boy calling for his mommy.

“Yeah.” She nods. The same must have happened with her. “Are you sore? Your back was bruised and your—” She looks back to the floor.

She wants to know about my ass? It’s a ring of fire from that fat fuck forcing himself inside me, but she shouldn’t have to worry about that.

“I’m fine. It’s okay. I’m okay.” I wait until she looks at me again. “Are you? There’s blood—”

She pulls her skirt over her knees and hugs them to her chest. “I haven’t been okay since I got here.”

“When was that?” How long has she been enduring these assholes? Playing to their tune?

“I don’t know. What’s the date?”

I open my mouth to tell her, but the memory slips away. “I don’t know. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here. I was upstairs until—” I press the heels of my hands into my temples, trying to force the memories to stop swirling. One lands, and pain ripples through my chest. Oh God.

“Ken?” she whispers, like she’s testing the waters of an unknown pond.

“Yeah.” I shake my head. “I don’t know how long it’s been since I was upstairs.” Memories, when provoked, don’t fade just because processing them hurts. They grab hold and blossom into full horror.

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