Page 34 of Irreversible

Roger trudges through the entryway with a plate of breakfast, wearing his usual attire: inky-dark compression shirt, slacks, belt, heavy boots. Eyes blacker than a moonless night.

I jump to my feet and twirl a lock of hair around my finger, rearranging my face until it reflects what I hope is spine-tingling joy upon seeing him. “Good morning, Roger.”

He grunts at me.

My greeting is cheerful as I straighten my spine, puff my chest, and clasp my hands in front of me. His gaze trails over my willowy curves in a slow pull, lingering on the dusky areolas evident through the thin material of my gown. The overhead lights reflect off his bald head, and he smells like he always does—tobacco and bleach.

“Sounds like it was an interesting morning,” I continue, harnessing an agreeable smile.

A grin flickers on his mouth, his gaze finally sliding up to my face. He hardly ever speaks, but I’m certain he has a soft spot for me. He brings me things: trinkets, treasures, treats. I plan to use that to my advantage one day.

But only when the time is right.

Roger closes the door behind him, and my shoulders slacken. I’m waiting for the day he leaves it open long enough for me to duck underneath his meaty arm and bolt.

Bending over, he deposits the meal near my mattress. It consists of a yellow lump of scrambled eggs and seasonal fruit. Neatly peeled apple slices and pineapple chunks.

It’s autumn.

Somewhere out there, leaves are turning red and golden, while I’m trapped inside this monochrome bubble.

“Thank you. That looks delicious.” I send him another smile, one that borders on flirtatiousness. Two weeks ago, he snuck a chocolate bar into my room. It wasn’t freedom, but it sure tasted like it. “Will Nick be eating, as well?”

He doesn’t respond, but I didn’t expect him to.

His beady eyes glimmer with equal parts pity and lust as he stares at me. Reaching into the front pocket of his pants, he pulls out a little friendship bracelet braided with turquoise and lavender yarn. Three beads roll between his thick fingers and thumb, and I glance at the letters, assuming they’re someone’s initials.

My stomach sinks, but I refuse to show it.

I have a trove of souvenirs stashed away in the corner of my room. Multicolored jewelry, barrettes, and even a sparkly blue guitar pick. They come from the victims.

Sick, morbid gifts.

With a final lecherous leer at my breasts, Roger tosses me the bracelet and turns around, lumbering toward the door and swiping a keycard through the reader.

Beep.

A plastic card is used for leaving, while a four-digit PIN allows entry.

Four numbers. I’ve tried to memorize them.

3, 2, 4…8.

The last number still eludes me. It hasn’t done me any good yet on this side of the door—but that doesn’t mean it never will. All I have is time to observe and take notes.

The moment the door seals me inside, I rush over to the wall separating me from Nick. My palms plant against it, fingers splaying, while I press a curious ear to the surface.

I wait, my pulse galloping as I drink in shallow breaths.

Then I hear it.

Nick’s door opens.

Breakfast.

My eyes flare with a shot of elation, knowing that Nick will be kept around for a little while. It shouldn’t matter to me, considering he’s been rude, callous, and cruel…but he’s someone. A human being, just like me, and I wouldn’t wish his future fate on my worst enemy.

The sound of a plastic plate clinking against tile is music to my ears. No words pass between the two men, just a shuffle of feet and rustling noises.

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