Page 113 of Patching Over

The problem is, I’m also physically weak since my food has been strictly monitored. It’s a diet plan I don’t recommend, in fact, I’d give it zero stars and two thumbs down. A snicker escapes, almost sounding gleeful, unintentionally provoking my keeper, the dickhead, and without warning, I feel the air rustle near my head before I’m slammed into the side of the vehicle.

“You ain’t got nothing to laugh at, slut,” Alvin sneers as two of the other women help me gain my footing and step into the van while I fight off the urge to puke. Note to self; if you toss your cookies, aim the jackass’s way.

My head’s spinning so badly that I’m worried about having a concussion, only I know that Alvin won’t give that first fuckabout getting me medical attention. Sadly, I’m going to be ‘gifted’ to one of their big wigs, which makes it that much more puzzling to me why they’re treating me like a punching bag instead of handling me with kid gloves.

I would think they’d want me to be unblemished, yet my back oozes from the whip strikes, the shoulder that Alvin hit, that I’m positive is dislocated, hangs at an odd angle, and the pain radiating through my head suggests otherwise.

“Shh, it’s going to be okay,” Sandy whispers while Alvin’s distracted by another woman who is screaming unintelligibly as they try to shove her into the van.

“Have you seen Moira?” I murmur back to her, my whole body screaming in agony, so much so, that I’m nearing the point of throwing up with each breath I inhale.

Of course, if I do that, Alvin will use it as an excuse to beat on me more, so I swallow back the bile that’s been steadily climbing up my esophagus, and once again, send up a prayer that my brother or his club find us sooner rather than later. Hell, at this point, if they find Moira since she’s in such bad shape, I’ll take that as a win. Sacrificing myself would be worth it if she is located and taken somewhere safe.

Although, my sincere hope is they’ll find me too. I figure at this rate, with the way my body is deteriorating, being a little selfish isn’t too much. Pssh, who am I kidding? Sleeper won’t give up searching for me. Ever. The day he stops is the day he sees my cold, dead body on a slab in the morgue, and I don’t intend to be a victim of these fuckers. No, I won’t be the one facing my maker, these backwoods, hillbilly, pieces of scum will be. I just hope I’m around to watch the roles being reversed and them begging for reprieve.

Understanding.

Compassion.

Yet they won’t find any, not from my brother, nor from his.

Taking in a deep breath, I focus on compartmentalizing the pain so I can think of a plan to help myself somehow. I’ve been leaving notes and messages at every location we’ve been at; but I can’t presume that anyone has found them.

However, it’s something my brother and I used to do when I was younger because we found out rather quickly that our asshole of a father would throw away a physical message if he came across it first. Hell, that’s how I got my first-ever checking account and debit card! Sleeper used to leave me cash, so I’d have money for lunch at school. Since his schedule was so erratic between the things he did for the club, as well as his work shifts, it was a month before he realized I never got any of the money he was leaving for me. So, he got me an account with his name on it that came with a debit card I could use, and seeing as dear old dad didn’t have the pin, and was not added to the account as a user, I never went hungry again. I’m sure Sleeper might not remember things quite the same way as me, he may have forgotten some of the small things he’s done, because to him, it’s what he was supposed to do, take care of his baby sister, but I haven’t forgotten one thing he’s done for me.

“No, babe, I ain’t seen her,” Sandy replies, sounding solemn, and interrupting my mental trip to yesteryear. “They probably left her and anyone else too sick to move behind.”

“They left them behind to die,” I whisper, speaking to myself but not caring if she overhears, my voice is now trembling with distress. Most would think it was doing this in fear or terror, but they’d be wrong; I’m so full of outrage and venom that I feel as if I could spit and take someone out with the poison leaching through me right now. I don’t understand why we were taken, what it is about us that caught their attention, or why any of the women I’ve met were snatched straight from the streets. The ‘good girls’ oversee tasks like cooking, cleaning, and ‘hostessing’ while the women who weren’t ‘pure’ are usedfor experimentation, and if they pass the health tests, they’re handed over to the cause’s soldiers for breeding. Although, the good girls are eventually given to the higher ups for the purposes of breeding too. It’s not a win-win situation no matter which way you come to them.

I know I’m not exempt, however; they’re just waiting for the head honcho to get to us, then I’m to be sacrificed to him like a lamb led to slaughter. I can’t believe I’m going to lose my V card to some vile man that I wouldn’t normally touch with a ten-foot pole.

“Move it, you bitch,” Alvin yells, rousing me from my fever-induced slumber. “We’re here, and you need to get your ass into the kitchen and get to cooking.”

I don’t answer; there’s no need to since anything I say will be met with physical violence and I’m tired of being assaulted. Instead, I crawl out of the back of the van and follow the rest of the women like a brainwashed zombie into another nondescript building. At least there’s a small sign that indicates I’m going in the correct direction of the kitchen. I just hope I have something to work with, so I don’t ‘pay’ for their ineptness as far as supplies go.

Once inside the utilitarian kitchen, I quickly search the walk-in refrigerator, freezer, and pantry, before coming up with a dinner menu I hope will be satisfactory to the assholes who’ve been pushing me around long enough.

As I set the ground beef to browning, I add in garlic, salt, pepper, and a little bit of onion powder, stir it thoroughly, then begin adding the cans of tomato paste, tomato sauce, and tomato puree to the large pot before turning on the burner onlow so it begins to simmer. A clove of garlic, some oregano, and a little parsley added to the pot, and the sauce is now going. Before this event, I didn’t cook much, and wasn't great at it, but the ladies on kitchen duty with me have taught me what they know, so my food has gone from passable, to satisfactory.

While the meat does its thing, with occasional stirring from me so it doesn’t burn, I lay out the loaves of French bread I found so they’ll thaw as I’ll turn them into homemade garlic bread closer to mealtime. Now, it’s time to focus on something edible for dessert that’s easy and I won’t have to exert much effort.

These self-righteous pricks, who even I know have skewed the Bible to suit their own twisted means, have obviously never heard of gluttony, because they insist on multiple choices for their after-dinner desserts. Thankfully, I found a few box cake mixes which I’ll doctor up so I can make several sheet cakes. I don’t have everything for buttercream frosting, but they’ve got the ready-made stuff, so it’s going to have to do this time around. If anyone bitches, I’m likely to snap, which, of course, will earn me another beating, but I’m almost to the point of not caring any longer. I’m nearing the point of becoming numb to their abusive hands.

“If Moira was left behind, then I pray to whoever is listening,ifanyone really is, that my brother and his brothers find her quickly. And, that it leads them to me. I’m wearing down, God. I’m in constant pain, I know I’ve probably got some serious infections in some of the open wounds, and I might be a tough bitch, but they’re wearing me down. I know I should be grateful that I’ve not been treated like so many of the other women have been, but that’ll eventually be my lot in life. I’m to be the head honcho’s prize breeder. A breeder, God, something that’s so abhorrent to me that I’d almost risk eternal damnation by ending my own life, except… I can’t do that to my brother. I know there’s a chance he might find me dead due to themistreatment of these fuckers, but it won’t be by my own hand, that much I can promise,” I murmur my promises and begging as I move around the kitchen and start pulling the items out I’ll need to make a salad.

“Dammit, I’m going to have to make homemade dressing,” I grumble, wracking my brain for one of the easy recipes I’ve been shown. “Oh, I know! I can use some garlic oil and Italian seasonings, then toss it all together and chill it!”

After the meat finishes browning, I carefully drain off the fat and grease, rinse it, then add it to the sauce that’s steadily bubbling on the back burner. A quick taste test has me adding a few more of the Italian spices before I put the lid back on and set a timer so that I can stir it again, and everything will intermix evenly, in about twenty minutes.

With the cakes now in the oven baking, the salads in the refrigerator chilling, and the sauce cooking, I set about cleaning up the kitchen so it’s in pristine condition. That’s one of the things Alvin regularly beats me for; I tend to clean as I go, unless I have a lot of things going at once, so dirty dishes pile up until I’m in a position to take care of them. Since I’m tired of him hitting me, and can’t promise I won’t jerk the leather strap from his hands the next time he tries, I’ve become more anal retentive about cleaning as I go.

Thankfully, I’m just in time since I hear the door slam open, and then his voice barks out, “You better have this place in tip-top shape, cunt.”

“Just taking care of the pan I used to brown the meat,” I reply. “The cakes are still baking, but once I have them out and cooled, they’ll be handled.”

“They better be, bitch,” he sneers.

“They will be, sir,” I reply, biting back the comment I wish I could make.

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