Page 19 of Delivered to the Devil

The guy who helped me find a pepper spray must have blabbered. “It’s just… anxiety. It has flared lately.”

“And your hand? Is that anxiety too?” he asks in a skeptical tone.

Tightening my jaw, I stare at the food I’m stirring. “Broken mug,” I say. At least that’s not a lie—and I guess the part about my anxiety isn’t really either.

Elek comes to my side and takes the spoon. “If you won’t talk to me, at least let me help you with that.” He nods at my bandaged hand, and I look down to find that the gauze is turning red again.

“Goddamnmit,” I say under my breath. It’s the third time during my shift the wound has broken open. I consider accepting his help. God knows I could use it—it’s a hassle changing the bandage myself—and I could use the comfort I’m sure he’d provide. But I end up shaking my head and hurrying toward the restroom to do it myself. Because it’s nothiscomfort I want.

I try to suppress the thought of whose comfort I’m truly craving, but as the gauze pads keep slipping and I can’t get the bandage tight enough, I can’t help going there in my mind.

I wish Janos were here.

I want to hit myself over the head for even thinking it. I shouldn’t want that man anywhere near me, and I’m truly relieved the customer with the suit and sunglasses has stoppedcoming. There’s no guessing why he came in the first place. Maybe to keep an eye on me. That would have become unnecessary now that we’ve established I can’t flee the country or find an authority who’s on my side.

No matter the reason, I’m happy he isn’t here to ruin the one place where my mind isn’t constantly flooded by images of the assault my body has endured.

Despite not being at my best—far from it—Izsák doesn’t mention my appearance again. He doesn’t even complain about my useless hand, and I realize that “best behavior” doesn’t have anything to do with my work performance. Rather, it’s a matter of being tolerant. Or silent. Because Izsák keeps sending sleazy remarks my way all night, and they’re not just the usual ignorable comments. He gets downright personal.

“Maybe you should take more shifts, so you could pay for some real boobs,” he says, staring openly at my small bosom. “You can’t even stick a dick between them; that’s how small they are.”

Later in the evening, when I take a short break in the back of the kitchen, he continues. “Who the fuck would want to shove his dick in a dead fish. Get your lazy ass back to work.”

When I come in the next day, it gets worse. He starts creeping up on me, touching me inappropriately. At first, he has the decency to pretend it’s accidental, like when I pass him and his hand grazes my ass. But during the night, he gets bolder, squeezing my ass behind the bar where no one can see.

I’m not the type of person who’d usually accept this. His ridiculous comments I can take, but the physical harassment is much more than I’m willing to overlook. But I’m not in the lucky position that I can afford to lose my job. All the useless security measures and the plane ticket have depleted my savings, and I surely won’t find a new job in my current state. The employerwould take one look at me and decide I’m good for nothing. I’m too worn out.

If I lose this job, I’m on the street next month. Iszák knows that too. So he keeps taking advantage and harassing me, knowing I can't do shit about it.

CHAPTER 10

“Pain With an Anchor”

by Mastodon

Rebecca

Three days after I was detained at the airport, my heart slams against my chest as I come home at night and see a bright splash of red color in the living room. There, in the middle of it all, is a huge bouquet of red roses. It’s so big it barely fits in the large vase.

It’s every woman’s dream. And my nightmare.

I rush to the kitchen and grab the biggest knife, clutching it in my hand as I check every nook and corner of my tiny apartment. When I’ve ascertained that no one is here twice, I return to the roses and snatch the white envelope. It’s thick in the middle as if it contains a stack of cards, and the cursive line scribbled across the paper is as neat as the roses.

I look forward to next time.

Nausea rises in my throat, and I nearly expel what little I’ve had to eat today.

With trembling hands, I fumble to open the seal.

“Argh!” I drop the knife and the envelope. My mind teeters on the edge of insanity as I pick up the latter and tear at the paper. A stack of pictures falls out, spreading over the floor.

Horror twists in my gut as I lean over to pick one up. And one more. And one more. They all depict the same thing—my sister’s four-year-old daughter with blonde locks and blue eyes. In some photos, she’s in a sandbox with a bucket between her legs, waving a shovel, her lips pulled into the cutest smile. Others show her sitting on her mother’s arm, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the camera. And finally, there are a few of her sleeping peacefully in her bed at my sister’s house.

I drop the pictures like they’re burning coals and watch them scatter over the floor anew in a horrifying collage.

There’s no note to explain, and there’s no need. The message is loud and clear. If I make another escape attempt, little Sophie won’t get to play in the sand or sit on her mother’s arm again.

I bolt to the bathroom and slam the toilet seat up just in time to throw up the meager contents of my stomach. I heave continuously, and even when there’s nothing left to expel, I keep gagging, my stomach spasming painfully. Tears stream from my eyes, and when my stomach finally gives up, I fall back against the cold tile. There, I sit for a long time, rocking myself as I sob into my knees.

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