Page 32 of Don't Say A Word

MIA

The girl falls to the ground as though she’s been thrown, her elbow hitting with such force it leaves grazes of blood. Her eyes dart, taking in the bed, the camera, the chains, before coming to rest on me. There is no fear in her expression. No curiosity either. She is blank. Devoid of emotion. She scrambles to the corner, hunkering down as though I’m the one she should fear.

“Hi.” The word doesn’t come out right. It’s too deep, too raspy, so I clear my throat and try again. “Hi,” I offer.

She stays huddled in the corner, unable or unwilling to lift her eyes. Her skin is pale, gray almost. There are dirty-yellow bruises on her neck. Scabbed welts on her back. She’s shivering, her whole body trembling so much I don’t know if it’s from fear or cold.

“What’s your name?” I ask. It’s such an inconsequential question under the circumstances. Names don’t matter. We don’t matter. But it makes me feel more normal. Whatever normal is.

Her head lifts but it’s only to jerk toward the camera as if she’s warning me he is listening. I pull the blanket off my bed and approach her cautiously.

“I’m Mia.” I drop the blanket over her shoulders and lower myself to the ground next to her. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

It’s a stupid question. Of course she’s hurt. It’s plain for anyone to see. She draws the blanket tight, wrapping it around her shoulders.

“Have you been here long? Do you know where we are?”

Again, her eyes flick to the camera. She would have been pretty once. Before the flesh left her body and she turned to skin stretched over bone. Before she was left battered and bruised and broken. Her hair could be called blonde, although straw would be a better descriptor. She has pale eyes, so pale they almost lack color. But as she glances upward, toward the camera again, I see a hint of blue.

Even under the blanket she still trembles. I reach out to rest my hand on her knee, offering her comfort but she recoils as though I have struck her.

“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her look spells disbelief.

“I’m like you.” I keep pressing, keep hoping she will talk. “They have me trapped here too.”

Her eyes scour my body and, for a moment, I wish I was marked like her. Instead, apart from the redness around my wrists, and the minimal welts on my backside, my flesh is unblemished. She despises me for it. I can tell by the way she looks at me. Her gaze holds a coldness that I thought was only in the eyes of my captor.

Lifting the blanket, she raises it over her head and hides. From me, from him, from the camera, I’m not sure.

I suspect she is to be part of my punishment, but I’m not sure how. She seems fragile enough. Unlikely that we would be required to hurt each other. Unlikely that she could.

It isn’t until the middle of the night that I find out their intention. I’m sleeping on the bed, blanket-less as she remains huddled in my corner. The one where I can see the stars. She isn’t looking at them though. Maybe it hurts her too much. She’s been here a lot longer than I have, it’s plain to see in the emaciation of her face, the despair in her posture.

I don’t wake to the door opening, instead, I only know they are here when a voice fills the room.

“Wake up!” It’s not a voice I’m familiar with. It is someone other than my captor. Fear snakes its way into my chest and wraps around my heart. I’m disorientated for a moment. In my dreams I wasn’t trapped in a room, but the reality of it all comes swooping back as the lights blink on and the girl in the corner throws the blanket off and crawls or shuffles or scrambles to the men, taking position on her knees, hands looped behind her back, head down in submission.

I lie still, too scared to move, but pretending I’m firm in my rebellion. There are footsteps and his face crosses into my line of sight. It strikes me as strange that I don’t even know his name. This man has taken me, struck me, demanded my submission and yet I have no other name to call him other than my captor.

“Don’t say a word.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking him from my mind. Or at least attempting to. He grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me upward, dragging me off the bed. I thrash and struggle, but the pull against my scalp hurts too much. I’m scared that if I don’t follow, a clump of my hair will be left in his grasp. He releases his grip when I am beside the girl, and I fall, steadying myself with the palms of my hands. She doesn’t look my way. She remains still as a statue, kneeling in submission.

I look up to meet the eyes of my captor. Rage dances in their shadows. Then my gaze slides to the man next to him and it is as though the room freezes and I half expect to see my breath coming out as puffs of mist.

The fear that is wrapped around my heart drops to the pit of my stomach, sending ripples through my entire body. The man smiles. It is evil and cold and littered with malice. But there is no tug of familiarity. If he is the one to have requested me, I do not know him.

“So, this is the one?” he sneers, bending down to examine me as one might survey discarded trash.

I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, refusing to let him see the fear that has turned my blood cold.

“Don’t say a word.”

It’s my captor that speaks and my eyes move between them, weighing up my options. Do I keep up my defiance and test my tolerance for pain, or do I submit? For I know it is pain that is coming. I can see it in the new man’s eyes. The way they roam over my body, noting my unflawed skin. He steps forward, hand raised as though he’s going to strike me, but my captor stops him.

“This is Star.” My captor nods to the girl beside me. “And this is her trainer, Marcel.”

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