Page 49 of Delivered to the Devil

No matter what type of day it is, it’s a relief having him here or knowing he’ll be here soon. He chases away the echoes of my screams that seem to be stuck within these walls, and even when he’s gone, it’s never long enough for his presence to fade. It soothes my frazzled system, and I don’t need the escape of work as much as I did before, so I cut back on shifts, only taking three or four a week. And work really isn’t much of a refuge without the peaceful view of the castle and river, anyway.

But there’s always a little bit of anxiety buzzing at the back of my head, growing during the day. So when Janos leaves after dinner, the anxiety will flare up to a blaring volume, crackling along my spine and pounding in my head. Because those arethe nights I know he’ll return to prepare me for Gabor’s sadistic games.

But even knowing what is coming, seeing him return an hour or two later is a relief. My heart may sink when I see his black suit and the lanky man following at his heel, but the mere sight of him is enough to ease the cold trickle of fear along my spine. And when Janos orders the scrawny man aside, I can close my eyes and imagine that it’s just the two of us, and I find comfort in the feeling of his hands sliding over my body as he undresses me, his hot breath fanning my skin, and his strong arms holding me until Gabor comes.

Those nights are few, though. And on the nights when he goes to the bathroom after dinner and turns on the faucet in the tub, it’s like a rock off my shoulders. Then, I know I’m safe, and peace settles over me as I sink into the hot water, listening to him type away on his laptop behind me, never leaving me out of sight while I’m in the tub. Once my skin is all wrinkly like raisins, he’ll take me out, rub me dry with a soft towel, and tuck me into bed. Then he’ll continue working in the red chair while I fall asleep.

“What are you doing?” I ask one night when I’d rather study him in the blue light of the screen than go to sleep.

“Working.” He keeps typing, aiming his sharp attention at the screen.

“Working on what?” I’m growing more relaxed around him day by day, asking more questions. He doesn’t always answer, but every now and then, I’m lucky to get some small piece of information I can add to the puzzle.

“I’m moving some things for our friends in Russia.”

“What things?”

While waiting for an answer that never comes, I stir up all kinds of horrible scenarios in my mind, imagining what he mightbe moving. Drugs, weapons, booze and cigarettes. Or much worse.

Fear infiltrates my mind, building and building until I can’t contain it. “Women?”

“No,” is his only response.

It does nothing to reassure me. On the contrary. Because his answer doesn’t mean he never deals in women. It only means this specific business deal doesn’t involve human trafficking.

My head spins out of control as the idea festers, making me imagine being sold off as a prostitute when Gabor grows tired of me. Then I’ll end up being pumped full of drugs, so all kinds of men can rape me in some dingy room.

I thought my situation was as bad as it could get, but that’s because I haven’t dared to think about how much worse it could get.

When sleep finally claims me, it’s restless and fitful. Horrifying scenarios play out before my mind’s eye with all too vivid images, making my chest constrict, my lungs barely able to pull in air.

***

I’m on a thin mattress in a steel bed, staring up at a cracked, concrete ceiling. Dirty, sweaty hands grab me from all sides, forcing their way inside me.

I try to fight—shove at the hands and jerk away—but I’m paralyzed. My fingers won’t even twitch. So I try to scream, but not even a yelp comes out.

The only thing I can move is my eyes. They roam over the men, searching for a kind soul I can evoke a sliver of sympathy from. But they’re all cruel and cold. I’m an object to them. A thing to be used and abused.

My eyes land on a set of steel-gray eyes at the back of the room. The man just stands there, a passive onlooker. He looks straight at me, yet he doesn’t see me. I try with all my might to beg him with my eyes, but there’s no hint of life. He’s like a lifeless robot programmed to stand guard without emotion or thought.

The hands become more eager, scratching at my skin and tearing along my inner walls.

I try to scream again, and this time, I feel the sound gather in my throat. But just as it’s about to burst into the open, fingers shove inside my mouth, blocking it. They push to the back of my throat, making me cough and gag. Then farther, blocking my throat. I can’t breathe. My lungs constrict to drag in air, but nothing happens. My stomach cramps with the effort, and black spots form in my vision.

I dart my eyes back to the passive man, begging and pleading with him silently. But he keeps watching with the same cold eyes. There’s nothing I can do as the air in my lungs runs out and the hands shove farther down my throat.

***

I jolt upright in bed. Running my fingers over the sheets, I feel the mattress. It’s thick and soft. I shoot my eyes through the darkness to see the walls. They’re clean and intact, and so is the ceiling. A loud sigh swooshes from my lips as I realize I’m alone. Except for the giant man sleeping in the armchair five feet from me.

Tears brim in my eyes at the sight. The relief is so stark that I react on instinct. Without thinking, I crawl from bed, take two steps over the floor, and drop down on his lap. I curl up there, clutching his T-shirt, and it’s only when I’m settled that I realize how boldly I’m acting.

But I don’t care.

I need to feel him. It doesn’t matter if he throws me back on the bed when he wakes. If a brief moment is all I get, I’ll take it.

His breathing changes as he comes to, and I tighten my grip with mighty strength. Suddenly, I can’t bear the idea of losing this. I need this dangerous man with throbbing desperation. It doesn’t matter what he does or lets others do to me as long as I get to feel him.

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