Page 42 of Delivered to the Devil

My new apartment with the nauseatingly pink curtains for one.

And my job. After ten days of absence, I couldn’t make myself crawl back and beg Izsák to let me keep my job. I’m sure he’d let me return, undoubtedly afraid of getting beat up again, but I can’t demean myself like that. There’s plenty of debasement in my life as is.

Instead, I’ve managed to get a job as a cashier at a Tesco store. I hate it. The woman at the opposite check-out counter is dead in her eyes, and she’s a daily reminder that I’m headed the same way.

It’s not that I need the money. I’m provided for more than plenty in the new apartment. The fridge is always full, and I get food delivered each day. But I need to do something besides lying in the gigantic bed, listening to the lingering echo of myown screams and staring into nothingness. So now I sit here by the teller and stare into empty space.

My boss has taught me a couple of Hungarian phrases—do you want your receiptandhave a nice day.Apparently, that’sall you need to work in his store. The rest, I handle by pointing at the screen while I try to memorize the list of Hungarian numbers he has given me.

I really should have picked a country with an easier language.

But then I think of all the other reasons to regret my choice of city, and the language barrier seems insignificant.

I find myself missing my old job—the beautiful view, walking around in my own world, not having faces staring at me constantly. It’s like a lovely dream compared to this. I feel like a robot behind the counter, and the horrible memories of Gabor using me keep creeping up.

Sometimes, I jump in my chair as a scream rings through the air. But when I scan the place, it’s always the same crowd of customers wanting their groceries checked out, and I realize the sound is my own screams lingering in my ear.

At the restaurant, I could forget everything for long stretches of time and find some kind of calmness. Here, I’m constantly on edge, feeling like dangers are lurking everywhere.

The one good thing about this job is that I only have day shifts, which means I’m back in the apartment before darkness descends. It’s a wholly absurd feeling of security. The dark streets are far safer than my apartment ever will be. Even in a dark alley near Szabadkai út, the chances of me getting raped are much smaller than behind the walls of what’s supposed to be my home.

But my life is full of those kinds of paradoxes nowadays.

When I get off in the afternoon, I head down to the river, hoping the water will cleanse my head, if only for a little while.But I can never get close enough and often end up crawling onto the rail. Every now and then, an outraged or shocked person grabs me lest I should fall. I always want to hiss and say that I’m not going to fall. Because I have tried. Several times, I’ve leaned out over that rail, hoping to do just that. But something in the dark corners of my mind always refuses to allow me to let go of the rail.

Every morning, before I go to work, Janos comes by to carry out the daily “training.” He doesn’t bother giving me time to wake up. He simply goes to work at once, and I often wake from the butt plug—which is now of considerable size—prodding against my ass.

As soon as it’s in place, he leaves. And so I have to remove it myself before leaving for work. Most mornings, I don’t see more than his back, and it pains me every time he walks out. I miss waking up and falling asleep to the sight of him in the red chair. I even miss him tying me up and feeding me.

I don’t even get the small tokens of reassurance with the daily food deliveries anymore. Only the sickening cards from Gabor.

I consider not eating out of protest—starve myself to make Janos come and force-feed me. But then I remember how sick that type of thinking is and refuse to accept being so broken that I long for my perpetrator. And if that isn’t enough to shoot down the idea, the memory of his threat about the feeding tube is.

So I obediently eat what I get and hope the impending night won’t bring a visit from Gabor.

But luck isn’t on my side these days. After ten days of total absence while Janos “fixed me,” Gabor comes several times a week. But it’s not his cruel games that I dread the most anymore. Most nights, he only wants a quick fuck, and even on his sadistic nights, it’s not the pain he inflicts that hurts the most.

No, what’s even more devastating is Janos’s cold distance. Since the kiss, he has taken on the role as the passive henchman while he lets the scrawny man have all the fun. It’s clearly not a change in pecking order that has prompted the change because Janos still orders the scrawny man around, and Gabor often tries to coax Janos into partaking. But Janos always declines.

I think this is Janos’s way of making sure he doesn’t cross a line—like kissing or fucking me. It’s obvious how things work around here. I belong to Gabor and no one else can use me unless they get a direct order or offer. But this explanation is no consolation. It hurts like hell every time Janos stares past me, and I start to think the kiss was just a heat of the moment thing that didn’t mean anything to him.

It’s like I don’t exist. Janos stands to the side with his arms folded in front of him throughout the entire ordeal. He doesn’t even look at me—only through me. And every time I see his closed-off stare, part of my soul chips away. Yet I can’t stop looking. Hoping. But it’s only when Gabor needs something or when it’s time for clean-up that he breaks the stiff pose.

He has the scrawny man doing all the work now, and everything hurts from the moment the two men step inside the door and long after they leave. The scrawny man seems almost compulsive in his violent way of handling me, and it doesn’t make a difference whether I comply or struggle. He’ll always strip my clothes off with unnecessary force and hold me in a tight armlock while we wait.

Janos never interferes. Only once, when the scrawny man slaps me across the face, does he let out a verbal reprimand. A small grain of hope blooms in my chest, but it only lasts a second. When I blink my eyes open and focus on Janos, I find a stoic stature—not even a flicker of emotion.

Once Gabor shows up, the real horror begins. There are no words for the pain of having two sets of cold, uncaring hands onyou while your body gets abused. My muscles coil so tight that Gabor can’t enter me without drawing long screams from my throat, and when he’s done with me, my stomach is twisted up in painful cramps.

I watch Janos throughout the entire ordeal, from the moment the scrawny man strips my clothes off, as I scream through Gabor’s assaults, and when the scrawny man drags me from the bed, crying and hunched over as I clutch my stomach.

Even the showers are painful. The scrawny man turns the temperature all the way down, then scrubs me with callous hands, turning me with hard yanks. There’s something awfully demeaning about having a set of dehumanizing hands running all over your body to wash you, and when he’s done, I feel dirtier than when I stepped under the spray.

He always ends the night by discarding me on the bed like a broken toy, then both men leave without another glance in my direction.

I feel so worthless it hurts to the bone. I barely even cry anymore. I just stare into thin air for hours. I can’t even make myself pull up the comforter. A useless thing like me doesn’t deserve such luxury.

In the light of day, I realize how wrong this type of thinking is and know none of this is my own fault. But when darkness descends, I aim all the blame at myself. The shame slowly takes root, infecting my soul and seeping into the hours of the day like black ink spreading into water.

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