12. 1994

BUNNY

The screaming never stops. Hours pass, days turn into weeks, and not once has the pounding of flesh against stony concrete walls come to an end.

There's no way to tell time when everything is so dark, no way to know when one day fades into the next. Everything feels like the same infinite nightmare—bellows, cries, thrashing, and begging. The only difference, the only way I know things change, is the rotation of guards.

Every ten or so hours, I assume, a new batch of men in militia uniforms will circle in. They hold their guns high, the noses of their rifles aimed straight at our heads. For the first few days, I shrunk and cowered in fear every time one of them aimed it at my tear-streaked face. I begged them to free me, to save me, with dirt caked on my lips.

"Get the fuck back!" is all they ever screamed, cocking their weapons the longer I remained on the bars.

I tried talking to some of the other girls near me, but when the guards weren't ordering me to be silent, they ignored me. I learned quickly that the only sounds in the room that weren't the noises of the soldier"s enjoyment were the petrified cries and relentless begging. All that did was draw their attention, and that was something I didn't want. So I stay silent, and as they walk past my cell, patrolling the seemingly endless corridor of hell, I watch them from the shadows.

"Did they feed you?" The question drifts like a puff of smoke, clouding all around me.

Startled, I glance around in the dark. "No," I respond to the directionless voice. I've begged, cried, screamed, and threatened for scraps of their meals, even the shit they spit out at the base of my bars. They laughed in my face while grinding it in the dirt with the tips of their boots, all while feasting more on my tears than their sandwiches.

"There's a small opening near the bottom of the wall. Can you find it?" The voice I discovered next to me questions, sounding panicked and determined all in one.

It's a struggle with all the aches and knots in my muscles, but once I'm on my knees, I do as she asks and feel along the walls, sliding my palms over every inch until I find the hole she's talking about.

"Yeah. I found it."

I wait at the little crack with my breath caught in my chest. On the other side, muted shuffling scrapes against the wall. I peer at the space with all my concentration, focusing in the dark for the slight movement.

Something black and malleable squeezes through the hole, little splashes of it falling on the ground before two pinched fingers come through. "Can you get it?"

Tossing a quick look over my shoulder for passing guards, I pluck the fleshy mush from her grasp and bring it to my chest. "Thank you, um..."

"Clara."

"Thank you, Clara," I mutter repeatedly until my back hits the wall. Wasting no time, I shove the slop into my mouth, forcing the rotting, spoiled sustenance past my closing trachea. My body repels the rancid taste, but her compassion is one that surprises me in a place of such cruelty. Fear and caution warn it's a trick, a trap. She'll hurt you just as they have. But my stomach rumbles painfully at her words, so I shove down the panic, press my head against the damp wall, and nod gratefully.

"Do you have anything to drink?" I find the nerve to ask, wincing as my desiccated tongue scrapes against my chapped cheeks.

"No, but um… I have a puddle I can maybe splash toward you."

"Please, just…something."

She doesn't respond, but I hear something splatting against the stone a second later. In the dark, I witness a little puddle growing beneath the slit and instantly drop onto my elbows, pressing my split lips to the growing pool. I barely get more than a slurp, mere droplets gracing my flesh, but Clara's kindness keeps the water coming, eventually enough to give me a few proper sips.

Desperate for more, I fall onto my side, attempting to shove my hand into the opening. The edges of the crack dig into my skin, flaying the flesh around my knuckles until the water turns pink.

When it's dried up on the ground, I flip onto my back, gently cradling my wounded hand before finishing the rotten meal in two bites. Though it was putrid, my stomach sings, and my cells flourish with that tiny amount of food and liquid. With that bit of nourishment, I feel rejuvenated.

Alive.

I'm going to survive this.

And I'm going to make them fucking regret taking me.

The bruises and cuts on my face were painful at first, but now I pick at their scabs with my knees to my chest. I attempt to cover my legs with the ends of my shirt, but it's pointless. I hate myself for grabbing probably the shortest one within reach. It barely covered my ass as I ran for my life, away from that apartment complex, but after my capture and their violent manhandling, there's not much left of it but scraps.

This has been my routine since they locked me inside, and none of it has changed—not until now.

"On your feet! Now! Move! Move! Move!" The balding man with a rifle strapped across his chest throws my cell door open, slamming the metal into the wall hard enough for me to feel the vibrations down to my bones. "Get the fuck up! Move it! Move it!"

I keep my nerves still as Baldy raises his voice, eyeing him with unfaltering hatred despite the threat of a gun.

"You fucking deaf, bitch? I said, on your fucking feet! Move it!"

"Fuck you." I don't flinch.

Baldy comes in, fist flying high. Before I can react, he grips me by the neck and forces me up, pinning me to the wall while guard number two comes in and charges for us.

I struggle in his grip, panic kicking in. Using my broken, jagged nails, I shovel deep, vibrant strips into his wrist. The harder I dig, the firmer his grasp becomes.

My pride prevents me from letting go, shredding tracks into his flesh while my chest catches fire. I feel my limbs weaken as the clarity rushes furiously away from my head. It may be dark as night in this cell, but I swear it's murder I see behind those cold, dead eyes.

"Don't fucking kill her!" I hear the other man snarl by the door, sounding murderous.

I'm about to give in to the blackness dancing along the edges of my vision, when he drops me to the ground, leaning close enough for me to catch the scent of coffee leaving his mouth.

I'm still on the verge of passing out when his spit lands on the corner of my chin. It's disgusting enough to give me a surge of lucidity and degrading enough to fuel my rage.

"Little bitch move for such a big, strong man." It's weak, barely a gasp, as I claw my way off the ground, but he hears it, and it infuriates him.

The shadow of his form stops just outside the entrance, his order to get up ready on his lips. Through the tunnel in my vision, I can see the steam rising off his shoulders, the furious vibrations rippling across his back as his hands flex by his sides.

It's a death wish, but I can't stop. Now that I've started and found a semblance of my strength, I can't stop.

"Aw, did I get the big, bad man mad? What? Pissed that my balls are bigger than yours?" I'm playing with fire, but God, at least it's warm.

"Keep running your fucking mouth, and I'll make it so you never fucking speak again. Understand, slut?" he barks with a slight twang to his voice, spinning around to stomp back into my cell.

I feel the blood draining away from my face the closer he gets to my corner, but I finally found some power. He can't have it. He can't fucking take this from me.

"What are you gonna do? Choke me with your one-inch chode? Hate to break it to you, but my pinky is bigger than anything you got in those pants."

I anticipate the smack, but nothing prepares me for the power behind his ring-loaded backhand.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I got into a fight with a girl in my history class. She didn't like that her boyfriend was paying a little too much attention to my tits instead of her endless whining. So one day, after I had just gotten out of gym class, she and her clan of bitches were hiding behind the exit door, waiting for me to step through.

Her first strike caught me off guard, but I knew how to take a punch. Still, it fucking hurt.

I had thought the throbbing along my face, swollen, split cheek, and body full of bruises were the worst pain I'd ever felt, and then I landed in this fucked-up world, and suddenly that pain didn't even come close.

But this.

This fucking hurts.

The slam of his knuckles connecting with my lips sends me flying into the closest corner, but not before I tear my hand over his pants, slicing my palm on something sharp. Blood spurts out from my lacerated gums and now loose tooth when my head slams into the concrete surface of the wall, prompting tiny white dots behind my eyes.

Curling into a ball, I wrap one arm around my face while the other locks in front of my stomach, trying to block my essential organs from his savage kick to my abdomen.

I can't help the cry that shoots from my throat when his steel-tipped toe meets my ribs. I'm sure I can hear the snapping of my bones—the popping of my lungs—as well, but I become less certain as vomit dribbles from my lips.

Maybe I shouldn't have pushed him so hard.

His hand locks around my throat, squeezing the life out of me even as the puffs of air leave my lips. I'm convinced he's going to kill me now, and a part of me welcomes it wholeheartedly when the assault stops and my abuser is dragged away.

"Fucking stop! Boss is going to gut you if you kill this one!" While they get into a pissing match, I scan my open hand, surveying the gushing wound across my palm. I must have sliced myself against the small knife tucked into Baldy's belt. Pinched, I try not to let the pain of it show as their heated conversation comes to an end.

As Baldy is dragged off, pride wounded, I struggle to rise to my feet, my muscles failing from my savage beating. Eventually, I get there, and when I'm within reach, the guard, a new one this time, takes me by the hair, yanking me forward with an extended arm.

He's rough, but not more than I can handle. "Walk faster!" he barks, jerking my head to follow the chain of females. I stumble beneath the force of his shove, choking out a hiccupping cry while trying to catch my footing. It's almost impossible while my fear makes the room spin, but I refuse to fall. I believe it's sheer will that keeps me on my feet, something I'm sure the guard is annoyed by when he tangles his fingers through my hair.

We're not all led with hands ripping at our scalps. Some girls are obedient enough to limp on their own. Others aren't as lucky. With fingers probing into every orifice of their bodies, we find our way out of the darkness. The minimal lighting doesn't allow for much to be seen, but as we're forced forward, I desperately search for a way out.

"Hey! Eyes ahead!" He embeds his nails deeper into my skull and wretches me right, forcing my feet to move faster than I am able in order to keep up with the crowd.

Closer and closer, there's a bright light. Almost as if a door appears out of thin air, we're walked into a white-tiled room. Beating down on us, the bright fluorescents pierce into our eyes. I'm the only one to cry out from the stabbing pain in my retinas. The rest of the girls simply drop their heads and wait for the next move.

"Hello, my girls! Everyone happy to be here?"

"Yes, sir," the choir rings out, no life in their hollow tones. My body doesn't react the same. Every time I hear that deep vibrato of his voice, my skin tightens around me. My fingers itch to peel it off, but I contain my need when his polished shoes stop before me.

"I asked if you're happy to be here." Fingers touching the bottom of my chin, Marone forces my glare to meet his. "You would be wise to answer me when I ask you a question." He adjusts to grip my skin—the promise of pain on the tips of his fingers.

"No," I growl. "I'm not fucking happy to be here." I jerk out of his hold, resulting in an audible gasp from the girls. I feel every individual stare boring into the side of my face, and it worries me almost as much as the smile spreading across his lips.

"Well, don't worry, sweetheart. By the night's end, I'll make sure you're the happiest whore in the room." Marone turns to face the guard who manhandled me, gesturing to my rigid form. "You make sure she's extra prepped. She's going to my champion tonight." My gut somersaults inside my body when his chuckle bounces through the air, folding in on itself when the girls shudder and bow their heads.

"You got it, boss," the bald-headed asshole responds, his grin extending from ear to ear.

"Great. I'll see you out there, my little Bunny." Once he leaves the room, we're herded through another door. This big, open area isn't nearly as bright as the last, more blue than anything.

On a flat, steel floor, we're spaced in rows, all an arm-length apart. "Strip," we're ordered, though most are already bare. I can't get my fingers to work enough to lift. They shake too aggressively at my sides to unfurl from their clenched position.

The guard assigned to me—the one instructed to make sure I'm extraprepared—has had enough of my delay. Stomping forward, he takes my scraps of a t-shirt and yanks it down. The thin material shreds from the back of my neck, ripping at a jagged angle until it dangles from his fist. "Stop wasting time. It won't save you."

He shoves me back in place with a stern look, just in time for the young blonde next to me to hand over a small bottle of liquid. I take it, confused. Lip curled, the guard I named Baldy and the rest of the men step behind a yellow line a dozen feet away.

"You have ten minutes!" Instantly, freezing showers pour onto our heads from above. They rain sheets of ice over our sensitive, bleeding skin, watching us with lecherous eyes and waggling tongues while we work to scrub the mud and blood from our pores.

I have it in my mind that I can scrape the bruises and popped capillaries from my skin—that if I use my nails, underneath the redness, they'll be gone. So I rub, and I rake, and I scour my flesh until I'm more battered than before.

"Don't do that," the blonde beside me whispers, placing her calloused palm on my forearm. "They love broken dolls."

"Who's they? What's going to happen?"

"Hey!" the guard snaps, shining a light in our direction. "Shut the fuck up and clean that filth off you!" Falling silent, we both look at the floor, holding our tongues until the light shines away from us.

"Just smile. They're nicer when you smile." She falls silent again, focusing on cleaning the ends of her golden curls before muttering one last thing. "My name's Clara."

With my own hair knotted in shampoo, I spin to face my kind stranger, happy to return the gesture to the woman who fed me.

"Bunny. You were the one next to me…with the hole in the wall."

"Sorry about the mush. I snuck in an apple about a week ago. It was all I had."

"And it was enough." It wasn't, especially after Baldy made me puke it all out. "Thank you for it." Our exchange ends there. Both of us are too scared to make too much sound, but even with that little said, it feels better to have a friend.

Quicker than I know it, my ten minutes are up. I was barely able to wash all the soap out of my reddish waves before the guards rounded us up and had us line up on the right wall. One by one, they hand us a large brown bag. The paper kind the bodega around Denise's house gave out whenever you bought something more than a carton of cigarettes.

I take mine hesitantly, peering into the open top when Baldy shoves it into my chest.

"The other girls wear white. But you—" Baldy pauses, touching me gently on the cheek. "Blue for our winner." I reach inside, gingerly touching the velvet texture before pulling out the navy slip.

"Can't wait to see what he does with you." His laughter follows him down the line, taking my pulse with him.

Naked and terrified, I watch the other girls drop their bags without care and slide into their uniforms. Each one is different, some long, some short. Some are made of silk, others as simple as cotton. Mine is the only one out of place.

"Put it on," Clara murmurs, already covered in a long, silken, white robe.

I don't want to. My head shakes instinctively as I mouth no, but I'm smart enough to know that refusing would cost me so much more. Like the rest of the girls, I let my bag fall to the ground, the straps of my dress hanging from my fingers.

Every guard and every girl have their eyes on me as I drape it over my head. I can feel their envy—their desire—oozing like puss across my skin as the material molds to me. I can't tell if they want to be me or if they want to kill me. A part of me thinks it's a combination of both. Why? I'm not sure.

What could they possibly be jealous of…

Even after I finish dressing, they stare. I look across all of them, willing them—begging them—to stop.

"Keep going." Baldy kicks the bag closer, overturning it to spill out another single item. For some reason, this simple, stupid object makes my stomach coil more than the dress.

The brush is nothing more than that—a silly fucking brush, but their eyes darken as I drag it through my hair. Their terror is potent, so consuming I swear I can almost hear their pulses rattle and shake as they watch me. Some of them fall so mesmerized, a smile lights their eyes.

What the fuck?

I don't stop until my ends meet my lower back and my waves are combed straight. The other girls are already done, so when I place the hairbrush in Baldy's waiting palm, we begin moving. Out of the washroom we go, headed straight into another dark hallway.

No one steps out of line as we follow the largest guard ahead. There's not a peep or a moan or a cry, a stark contrast to a few days ago.

Fuck. A few hours ago.

Unlike when I was brought here, they leave me unmasked, allowing me to see the terrifying emptiness of these halls. My little cell is covered in claw markings and unrevealed stains. I can visualize all the girls who came before me—all the girls who fought for their lives within the concrete walls. The same can't be said now.

There isn't a speck of gory history on these walls. We're led across spotless floors, almost as if no one's ever walked this path before.

"Stop!" the guard in front orders, bringing everyone to a standstill. Fidgeting, I peek around Clara's head, eyeing him as he types something into a mounted keypad.

1-9… I can't decipher the rest, but it's four digits.

I can figure out the other two… I know I can.

Once he finishes typing in the code, he grabs the girl at the head of the line. "Get inside," he instructs, then takes her by her frail, bone-thin shoulder to throw her inside the open elevator. He does that to each of us, cramming us into the not-so-large space until we're pressed against each other.

Two guards face the front, while the other two stand on each side of the elevator. Their large guns are cocked and ready, pointed at our heads in case we get any ideas.

Because I was the last one in, I'm standing at the front. So, I can see when the head officer presses a combination of buttons on the control panel.

6-7-4-7. I ingrain this code into my mind, burning it so deep it'll never be forgotten.

Instantly, we descend, soaring down quickly enough to make my stomach drop. I reach out instinctively, grabbing hold of Clara on my right. She lets me grip her forearm, but I can tell she's uncomfortable with my touch by the shivers rippling under her flesh.

About another thirty seconds go by before the elevator jerks to a sudden halt. The head guard in front turns to face us. Arms crossed behind his back, he glances above our heads, roaring at us in the compact space.

"Rule one!"

"Know our place!" the girls around me shout. It's the first time I've heard a little bit of life in their tone.

"Rule two!"

"Serve without complaint!" Light returns to their sickly complexions, almost as if they're ready to be born again.

"Rule three!"

"Never say no!" What the fuck is going on?

The guard watches all of us with a smirk, proud of his little captives. "Have fun, ladies. We'll get you in the morning." The doors open then, exposing us to more darkness. Only this time, instead of eerie silence, I'm cowering under shrieking cheers.

The girls don't seem affected at all by the thundering noise. If anything, some even seem eager, pushing and shoving me out of the way as if they can't wait to drown in the sound.

"Are you fucking stupid?" Baldy asks, stopping inches before me. "Well? What are you waiting for? Go." Taking me by the arm, he rocks me from my standstill position, throwing me toward the looming exit.

Even on a flat surface, with no shoes on my feet, I stumble. He doesn't bother to catch me as I fall to the ground, just looks at me with complete disinterest before yanking me up by the neck.

"You are the champion's prize. Which means that, for the night, no one but him can touch you. You should consider yourself lucky.

"Wh-why?" I stutter, hating the weakness in my tone. I've fought my whole life not to be some fragile little girl, and here I am—crumbling. I've never been so disappointed in myself as I am while walking through this pitch-black tunnel. I had always prided myself on my strength, how Denise or any other foster parent never broke me, how the boys who would corner me in dark hallways on my way from school never saw a tear.

I can't seem to stop them now. My eyes are constantly raw, my chest always aching.

I always vowed not to become like the other girls in my other homes, withdrawn and fractured inside, but I feel it happening. Every second I'm here, I sense the cracks growing.

Hand wrapped around my upper arm, Baldy drags me up the inclined floor. The higher we go, the louder the cheers roar. Soon, we're just before the entrance, our shadows standing in the blue and maroon lights while the banging of metal clashes around my brain.

"I don't want to go in there…"

Baldy releases a sigh that almost sounds sympathetic, but it must be only in my imagination.

"Yeah. I wouldn't either if I were you."

I didn't expect him to grow a heart all of a sudden and whisk me to freedom. I just wish he'd stop grabbing my arm so damn hard.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I got past the entrance. I saw the lights. I heard the noises. The party at Marone's mansion should have been enough of an insight into what I could witness, but still, nothing comes to mind.

It definitely wasn't the hoard of men crowded around a circular cage, their fists banging against the chain links while two men beat themselves to a pulp. I feel the blood drain from my face as the fighters' own coats the dingy, stained mat.

My feet still move through the crowd, but all I can focus on is their pained, garbled grunts. The mob goes wild with each punch, forgetting about the barely legal girls grinding and bobbing in their laps.

"What is this?"

"This, my Bunny," Marone shouts, sneaking up behind me as Baldy leads me through the mass, "is my dog fight."

Passing me off immediately, Baldy falls back into the void, vanishing from my sight as soon as Marone locks his arm around my waist. The second his slimy, scaley fingers curl around my hips, I fold into myself and struggle to get out of his hold. All that gets me is a firmer grip, one with nails that embed past the velvety material.

Claws deep, Marone glides us through the throng, shoving past blood-drunk men and the despondent women serving them. "Where are we going?" I shout, an unwelcome wobble in my voice.

"Front and center, Little Bunny. I want my champion to see his prize."

We make it to the front of the ring, heading toward the king-size throne, waiting for Marone. He hops onto the platform that the chair sits on, glancing at me with a grimy grin before pulling out a shiny chain from the cushion. Immediately, I back away, but I collide with a firm body.

Hands on my shoulders, Baldy shoves me forward, forcing me close enough for Marone to secure the chain around my throat. "I'd like to see you run now," he laughs, then jerks it to haul me closer. I catch myself on the arm of the seat, but not before my shin crashes into the platform.

Tears bead in my eyes, but furiously, I blink them away, knowing this is the last place for emotion.

I think for a moment that it hasn't worked. The tears are obviously still falling from my eyes because my cheeks are wet. Disappointed, I angrily scrub the dampness from my face, stopping only when I see the horror smeared across the back of my palm.

My insides shrivel as I stare at the blood staining my flesh, horrified that it's on my face.

"Get it off! Get it off! Get it the fuck off!" I freak out, panicking while holding back my nausea. Marone finds enjoyment in my disgust, howling with laughter on his red velvet cathedra.

"Awww, what's wrong, Bunny? Don't want a man's murder on your skin?" It's then that I realize the crowd has become unruly. Their screams have turned into shrieks of violence, all of them thirsty for more. The banging of the cage has stopped, leaving me terrified to find out why.