Page 21 of Shame

“Yeah.” I’m already falling asleep again. “I’m so tired,” I mumble.

“You’re all drugged up, girl.”

She comes back with my little vanity mirror and holds it up for me. There’s a swelling on my left cheek and I’m a little blue under the eye. I trace the swelling, trying to remember last night. It was so rough. Pain. Fear. Humiliation. All those brutal hands. I thought I would look much, much worse. Funny what the body can take.

Then a horrifying thought strikes me.

“How’s my ass?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he tear me for real, Miranda?”

Miranda’s mouth falls open and a look of horror settles on her face. “I don’t know. Want me to get the matron?”

“Yes!” I fight the sleep that wants to claim me. This, I need to know.

She literally flees out of the room. She’s so afraid. I’m her worst nightmare. I’m everyone’s worst nightmare. It doesn’t take many minutes before she’s back with the matron in tow.

“How are you feeling, honey?”

“I’m high on drugs,” I slur. “Am I broken? My ass? My pussy? Will I be all right?”

The matron looks afraid too. It’s not a comforting sight. But then she nods. “You’re a little torn, Carmen, but that’s it. You’re not as bad off as we thought when you first came home, with the blood, and all the bruises. Doc thinks you were in shock more than you were physically damaged. You were lucky. It could have been worse. You scared me good, though.”

I scoff bitterly. Lucky.

When I wake again it’s in the middle of the night. I ache again. Even the smallest of movements makes stabs of pain shoot through me. Everything between my legs. A dull discomfort in my lower belly. My head pounds. I look up. Someone sits on the chair, but this is a slimmer person.

“Who’s there?” I whisper.

“It’s Yannica. Do you need anything?”

“A shitload of morphine.”

She laughs, a light tinkling sound. “I’ll get the matron.”

I sleep through the whole next day, high on drugs. They make me eat a little yogurt even though I have no appetite. The morphine dilutes not only the physical pain, but also the memory of how it got there. The doctor comes by, putting on new bandages.

“Have you patched up many girls, Doc?” I ask.

He shoots me a gaze, then looks back down at my wrist. “A few.”

“Only a few?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Were they as bad off?”

He pushes his glasses up his nose and meets my gaze, then he shakes his head.

“Do you know the monster?”

“Mr. Salvatore?”

I don’t answer. He knows who I refer to more than well.

“I’ve worked for him for many years.”

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