Page 3 of Little Psycho

She motions for me to twirl around, her finger held in the air, taunting me something terrible.But I comply with her silent demands, slowly spinning on my heels to give the hungry men a show.

The bidding begins, and their interest is piqued immediately.I almost puke as I see the little numbered paddles in their hands raise high in the air, and prices for my virginity go as high as $100,000.

It’s not long before my hearing becomes distorted, and I begin swaying nervously back and forth, feeling as though I’m about to collapse.The blood in my body rushes through me at a rapid speed, and I feel a surge of panic as I hear the terrifying reality of what my parents have planned for me tonight.

There must be some way out of here—someway for me to escape the horror that awaits me.

I look around, desperately searching for a way out, but there isn’t one.The devilish eyes of the men in the room are fixated on me—only me—their greedy, intimidating stares making it quite clear that there isn’t an escape.

I’m trapped in this disturbing reality, as I was upstairs.This is my fate, but I still can’t accept it.

My heart pounds, and my mind races with fear and desperation.

But I have no idea what to do.

The next thing I know, as I continue swaying back and forth, is that I collapse, falling to my knees on the stage, everything around me instantly fading to black.

ONE

RAZORBLADES

SCARS—PAPA ROACH

A YEAR LATER

CALISTA (14)

The cold metal clasp digs into my ankle with each slightest movement; it’s weight, heavier than the burden that’s been weighing me down.The chain secured to me prevents me from running off because my mother wants me this way—trapped.

I can feel the cold air flitting in through the dry-rotted wood around the window, letting me know that summer has come and gone and fall is already here.I can’t tell how long I’ve been chained to my bed this time, but I know it’s been more than a few days—a month or two, maybe.

I tried running away more than a few times, right after my thirteenth birthday, when my mother sold my virginity to a man three times my age.

She said I was special, but I didn’t feel like it.

The bruises from her soft, manicured hands still linger on my delicate, pale skin, serving as constant reminders of the pain she has inflicted on me.

But today, as the sun sets and the room grows dim, I feel a sliver of hope within, breaking through the brick wall I’ve carefully built over time.

I’ve been working on a plan to break free from this prison she has created for me.I’ve managed to loosen the clasp on the chain just enough to slip my bony ankle out; it’s not hard when I’ve been getting thinner and thinner—lack of food will do that.

But I need to wait for the right time, and with it being my fourteenth birthday today, I have no idea what she has planned—if anything.

To pass the time, I reach under the mattress and feel around for the razorblade I keep hidden, cutting the tip of my finger as it slides across it.The pain doesn’t bother me.I don’t even wince.I carefully pull it out, grasped between my fingers, a relieved smile spreading across my dry, cracked lips.

Lifting my torn, dirty nightgown, I spread my legs so my inner thighs are on display; the scabbed cuts somehow soothe my racing anxiety and bring a satisfied smile to my sunken-in face.

“Do it," the girl sitting beside me urges, knowing just what I need to make the pain go away.

“I am,” I answer back, feeling comfort from the other lonely girl in the room, always making sure I’m okay.

I bring the blade to the tender flesh just below the apex of my thighs, pressing the sharpened edge against an unscathed spot.Swiping the razor from top to bottom, blood seeps from the slice as the blade breaks my skin, trickling down to the already stained mattress.My legs stop shaking, and I cut again, right next to the first one, mesmerized by the crimson river flowing down the inside of my thigh.

“Don’t cut too much,” she says, warning me.

“Just one more,” I retort, sounding like an addict as I begin making a third slice, slightly deeper than the first two.

And then I tuck the razorblade back underneath the mattress, my gaze stuck on the sight of the blood painting my bruised, pale skin.Every drop of blood that drips down my leg gives me a sense of relief—a temporary escape from the pain that constantly surrounds me.

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