Page 16 of Reign of Betrayal

I hate them. I want to kill them all. Suddenly, I am pulled from my thoughts when I feel the knee ease off my back, and my pants being pulled down.

I know what’s coming—the perverted guard will have his way with me. It has been a long while since we got an influx of new inmates, but this is nothing new. I am glad we got more inmates in the Hollows. I do pity them—no one deserves to be raped or assaulted, but it is nice having a long stretch between dealing with the disgusting behavior from some of the guards. I’d rather they mess with me instead of Elm.

Not all the guards are filthy pigs, only a select few, but Big Al is by far the most malicious—the evilest. He’s done the worst, especially to me. If it wasn’t for Elm and Larah, Big Al would have broken me.

“You will lay there and watch. If you interfere, she will get a bunch of these”—the guard lifts the whip. “Then, I’ll throw her in the hole for days.”

“Don’t! Don’t touch her!” Elm screams out. His eyes are red and feral. His anger is tangible. The man with the whip gives him another lashing, and blood splatters all over my face.

I look at Elm, telling him to shut up with my eyes. My heart is in my throat. My steady pulse is now pounding in my ear. I don’t want anything to happen to him. He just stares at me. His wild eyes are unreadable.

“How about we take you instead?” The guard chuckles, while the others join in.

“I won’t fight it. Just leave her alone, please.” Elm says, defeat dripping off each word.

Please. Tears begin to sting my eyes. Such a simple word, one Elm never uses—yet he just did, to protect me.

Elm lifts his pained face from the ground and looks at me. His blue eyes plead for me to lay there and shut up.

I look at Elm and shake my head. My friend. My stupid best friend. The big brother I have always wanted. He was willing to take the pain so I don’t have to endure it. He holds my gaze, not saying a word out loud. He raises his right hand, crossing his middle finger over the pointer finger, and his pointer finger over the ring finger—three braided fingers, that meant so much to us.

It means, ‘I’ve got you. I am with you. We will be okay.’ But it’s also the three of us together: Elm, Larah, and me. We are strong together and can get through anything. Together. He brings those braided fingers to his lips and kisses them before placing his palm back on the stone.

As stupid as it is, it meant something—especially if one of us was alone in a cell, and the others couldn’t get to them.

He first muttered those words when I came back from my first experience in a back room with Big Al. I was soaked in blood from the disturbing acts he performed on me… to me. I didn’t want to be touched, but I couldn’t clean the blood off myself because it was everywhere, and I was too injured. Larah was in the hole, so she couldn’t help me. Elm helped me with mindful and careful hands, making sure to be deliberate where he touched—and didn’t touch. My mind is healing, but my body will bear the scars that tell the history of my abuse.

I know I will make it worse if I do anything. I do the only thing I can, which is… absolutely nothing. Since I can’t fight back, I braid my three fingers back and kiss them in response.

“Well, since you asked so nicely, let me oblige you.”

The big man with the whip opens his pants and reveals himself to us. He drops to his knees while the guard with no inmate in front of him yanks Elms pants down. The guard with the whip spits in his hand and wets himself, stroking himself a few times before he thrusts into Elm. Elm grunts but doesn’t holler out. He just looks at me, eyes glassy and filled with hatred. He is probably thinking of all the ways he would kill them. I know I am. I hate them.

The other guard begins fisting himself.

Gross.

Elm turns his face down, looking at the space between his tense palms, his fingernails splitting with the intensity of digging them into the stone below him. His jaw is taut, muscle straining. The guard behind him begins to pound into him, picking up his pace until he finally finishes with a grunt. He pulls out of Elm, and I notice blood all over the guard which is now also dripping out of Elm onto the floor.

The guard holding me gets up and takes his turn on Elm. All I can do is lay there. I stretch my arm out so my fingers barely brush Elm’s hand, which now feels tacky, moistened with sweat. His filthy blonde hair is now damp. He turns his head to me and barely raises the corner of his lips into a tight whisper of a smile, letting me know he appreciates the gesture.

Once the guards finish, they place a bucket of water and a washcloth on the table and leave us. We know the drill. We have only a few minutes to clean up and get out there, so they can take us back. How generous.

The door shuts as Elm collapses on the stone. I spring up, throwing my tunic back on and adjusting my pants. The air is filled with a mixture of alcohol, sweat, and blood. Elm’s blood. I hear him sniff, but he isn’t facing me.

“Elm?”

He isn’t responding or moving. I grab the bucket and washcloth. The water sloshes onto the floor as I set it down next to him.

I reach for his arm to help him up, but before I touch him, I ask, keeping my voice soft and low, “Elm, can I touch your arm? Help you get up?”

We are not strangers to this. However, sometimes in the moment right after such an act, the thought of being touched is crippling.

He nods. I gently and slowly help him to his feet. I give him privacy while he washes off the blood and bodily fluids that are leaking out of him. I hear him sniff a few more times, while I hear the water from the washcloth being squeezed out.

Once he is done, Elm wipes his eyes, and we walk out of the room, back to the guards, to our cells—to the double burning hells on earth we live in.

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