Page 36 of Raw & Vulnerable

Someone throws a match and Minnie feels sick in the orange glow.

The fire starts as they cram into the other SUV, driving off ever farther from home. Minnie despairs, thinking they’re going to kill her and leave her body amongst the trees, but they don’t.

They drive for a short while before coming up to the local motel, a run down, nasty looking place. It’s far out of the main town, basically remote. A disgusting place where hookers meet johns and drug dealers peddle their product.

It appears the men have already paid for a room before starting their day robbing and terrorizing, because they pull right up to a specific door, the Clown glancing around for any bystanders. “Cover her eyes.”

Skull puts a big hand over her eyes, blocking her vision, knocking her glasses askew. She hears some rustling, realizing they are taking their masks off. “I don’t want to see, I don’t want to see!” Her voice is hysterical, begging. “Keep your masks on!”

If she sees their faces, she’s dead meat.

Doors slamming, keys in doors. Male laughter. She’s moving, her face pressed against Skull’s side with his hand artfully over her eyes. It probably looks like a guy bringing his sick or sleepy girlfriend into their motel room. Or something far more devious, but Minnie isn’t going to speculate on that. She has enough to worry about, enough for a lifetime.

The motel smells about as terrible as she expected it would. Musty, old. Like mildew. He puts a mask on her, backwards so she can’t see a darn thing. Wanting to get out of his reach, away from all of them, she backs herself into a corner, sliding down the wall miserably.

She wants to break down sobbing, clutching her glasses to her chest like a lifeline. She wants to beg for her life and figure out what they plan on doing to her. They aren’t going to…touch her…are they?

It seems they’ve mostly lost interest in her already though, for she’s left to be a quivering mess in the corner.

A door opens and closes in the room. Creaky. The bathroom? She hears urine hitting a bowl, someone groaning, “Finally!”

Oh, gosh. What if she has to pee? She’s forgotten about her bodily functions. The more she thinks of it, the more it feels like she needs to go. She clenches her thighs and tries to not think of needing to go, but the sound of running water doesn’t help.

“Do you have to use the bathroom?” The Clown. She recognizes that deep voice, deep and dark.

She shakes her head; she doesn’t want someone to help her in there.

“Don’t lie,” he replies. His voice belies a more mature age, perhaps he’s the leader. “No one is going to touch you. I’ll put you in, but you have to come out on your own. The lock is busted, so don’t get any ideas. I’m sure you know well enough to keep your mask on when you’re ready to come out?”

Minnie nods, almost relieved. Her bladder feels tight, like it’s about to explode and kill her in the process.

He leads her over to the bathroom and pushes her in, shutting the door behind her. Scared, Minnie takes the mask off, eager to breathe without it on. She looks at the thing in her hand. The ominous, grinning skull. She puts it on the counter, angry.

The bathroom is grimy and made of nightmares for Minnie. Germs, she imagines. Does the place ever get cleaned? Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, she puts the seat down with it, because some uncultured swine left it up. She throws that paper in the garbage and then hovers over the seat, not wanting to touch it. Doing her business as fast as she can, feeling self-conscious, knowing they all can hear her peeing, Minnie finishes up and washes her hands.

With a sigh, she puts the mask back on, backwards, opening the door, her glasses tucked in her pocket. With her hands held out, she walks like Frankenstein, trying to make sure she doesn’t knock into anything. Or anyone. Someone takes pity on her and puts her back on the ground in her corner. She sighs in relief, letting her head rest against the wall with a thud.

Exhaustion takes her. She fades from consciousness slowly after.

She wakes up when she feels odd, tingling feelings on her neck.

Something is crawling on her skin and over her hand. Minnie seizes up, wide awake again, scrambling against the wall at her back.

“That’s a roach, bitch.” Ghoul. “Bet you’ve never encountered one of those in whatever mansion you live in.”

A soundless wail builds in her throat as she slaps at her body, trying to remove anything that feels remotely like it isn’t supposed to be on her. Seconds later, she hears one crawling on the wall beside her and she stands up, panting.

She’s never seen a cockroach, but she’s heard they are horrifying. That they bite.

The Ghoul is laughing at her in the awfully scratchy, cruel voice of his, always amused by her woes. His laughter gets cut off with a grunt of pain. The Skull’s baritone calls her over shortly after, so she follows the sound of his voice until she bumps into the mattress, almost falling flat on her face on it.

Strong hands settle her into a sitting position, pulling her up by the headboard so she can lean against it. He places something in her hands. Nervously, Minnie squeezes it, hears it crackle. A water bottle. She looks in the direction that she thinks he’s in, asking, “Is it…new?”

She’s a germaphobe. She’s doesn’t want to drink off something he drank off of. What if she gets a disease?

“You think boys have cooties or somethin’? You want it or not?” His non-answer isn’t soothing in the least, but she’s so thirsty, so she drinks it, lifting the bottom of the mask over her lips. She assumes he’s watching her. She prickles with awareness.

He takes it back when she’s done.

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