7. Ana

SEVEN

Ana

D ima's cave is a tech lover's wet dream. His annoying fingers jab across the keys while I look around. There are screens set up in a straight line. I could watch every one of the sitcoms I use for social nuance at the same time. Nothing interesting pops up when I press the button on the side, unless I was a sick fuck and wanted to browse the chats of other sick fucks sharing links to abuse.

He has a filter on the chats so that anything referencing a boy with blood on his teeth is automatically sent to someone else. Weird freak. Ignoring his filtering, I scroll through them, hating how some of their non-child-molesting jokes are funny. If all the rape was taken out, it would read as though they're normal friends sharing laughs and passing time. People are fucked up, the more normal they seem the worse their insides are.

Dumbass clears his throat and he's less angry since I went to the hospital.

"Get dressed, I've got the link set up."

He doesn't call me annoying or take deep breaths anymore. Maybe he had a medical condition, he's been diagnosed and receiving treatment now. It would make sense with the abrupt change in his behavior.

I look down at my clothes when he keeps staring at me. I'm dressed in my usual outfit, there's no reason for me to wear anything else when we're basically watching TV. Seeing my confusion, he throws fabric at me, it's black and too small to be anything other than a t-shirt. He doesn't say anything, he grumbles like an animal while I harden at the fuckhead's actions as I piece it together.

My tone is deadly, already planning how I'll kill him if he even tries anything.

"I'm not fucking you."

Disgust contorts his ugly face and voice. "My dick has shriveled up and died with the thought, don't worry."

I still don't move, refusing to change who I am or have my body on show in front of the weird freak. It's not down to comfort, I could run down the street naked and not care. He doesn't get to tell me what to do, no one does because I'm free now.He rolls his seat back and turns the screen to face me, the rules have changed. Fucking assholes. They've added the new rule in big bold letters.

ALL PLAYTHINGS MUST BE IN SIGHT

Why do I have to be the fucking plaything? Dima could sit his big ass on the floor instead of me. I'm not a dog who's going to kneel beside him waiting until I've done a trick right to get a treat or a belly rub. I've seen the way they all act, the person loses all sense of themselves when they're forced to be in that position. I'd just have anger to keep me company and I'll end up stabbing him if I get bored.

There's no loophole I can take advantage of, and he opens his annoying mouth.

"Or leave the room and I'll let you know if she's there."

I groan, taking my shoes off and accepting defeat as I grumble back so his caveman brain understands.

"If you touch your nasty dick, I'm chopping it off."

The chair swivels without a retort as I push my jeans off my hips. I'm surprised he didn't throw up. Marlo always said I was lucky to be training to be a madam, I wouldn't have made enough to cover expenses otherwise. Jokes on that dumb prick because I got a ￡500 tip the first time and I was only six.I can taste the chocolate cake I bought with the money. It was the best ninety-nine pence I've ever spent, and I got four of them.

The ridiculously short dress covers more of my arms than my body, so I pull my socks up to cover as much of me as possible. All my tattoos are covered and I'm glad he didn't make me show them to other people.

"Leave them off, come here," dumbass speaks as I go to put my boots back on.

Each step without them is like walking over gravel, the uneven texture on my soles rubs against the edges of the rug and I push more of my body weight down, liking the feeling. It doesn't hurt with the tissue having healed but it's bumpy and the deep scarring has formed ridges.

Dima reaches into a drawer and excitement starts to build at the thought of him pulling out a knife. He'd be a fun opponent; his size and skill would make it harder for me to win and I'd have to work for the kill. It fades as fast as it came when he pulls out a mask. The outside is black, so black it's a void and I can't even make out the contours of the material.

The automated countdown starts as the online lobby opens and I shove it over my head at the same time Dima pulls on a ski mask. His looks comfortable but I get the heavy one covering my full face. Even my eyes and lips are covered, my breathing is going to make it feel like I'm in a rainforest. I'm going to be bald with how much my hair is falling out again and the stupid straps are tugging against my scalp.

He widens his legs and I recoil as he touches my hips then pulling me to stand in front of him. I don't trust TRR not to be recording already and bite my cheek while checking I'm not in view of the camera. The urge to kill gets more intense when Dima fucking combs through my hair with his fingers. There are going to be strands everywhere and he'll have something else to mock me about. It's always something, my voice, my looks, my height, how I speak, where I go, anything that can be picked up on, is. With all the dickheads.

The entire world is filled with people like Marlo, they find everyone's weaknesses and then stick a knife in them, not because they want to kill the weakness, it's to make it bleed and then show you how easy it was. I didn't have any of my own, they were all given to me, and I hate it because it reminds me of Marlo and Yulia, the creators of Ana.

But Dima continues arranging the strands until they're how he wants without saying anything. I'm going to buy him a doll, so he stops fucking petting me. They can't be that expensive, a couple of dollars is worth never feeling his hands on me again. Even though they don't go anywhere remotely sexual, there's possessiveness in his touch as he herds me closer to him and flattens his palm on the center of my back to turn me and make me sit down.

I know why I have the full-face mask when I touch his thigh, it's to hide my gagging. He looks dumb as fuck in a suit and a ski mask, the sophisticated bank robber. When the countdown ends so do my internal jokes seeing the row of people. The sinking in my stomach is guilt, I've been the person who got them ready, laid out their outfits, and done their hair.

None of them look older than twenty-five – the expiry date. Or below fifteen, they're in that dulled in between before it gets really bad. Right now, they're lying to themselves, creating a false world to hide in while their bodies are slowly unveiled. They have all their limbs, not Nina, and I deflate. Cool air brushes my ear at the same time as Dima whispers, "They have retina tracking."

I can see the fucking screen I don't need his dumbass commentary.

My fingers itch to feel blood as the distorted voice sounds and cold washes over me. It's not directed at Dima with the sick cunts introducing their special brand of depravity.

"This is a teaser for the few who will be lucky enough to have an invite, each band represents a specialty."

A pair step forward, demonstrating the announcer's words as they go through each color. I think it's Rowan speaking, he always loved being the showman and I can't imagine him allowing one of the mirrors to speak. I wonder if he lets anyone see his face now, the last time a guard saw him without a mask he took out their eyeballs and tongue.

Fingers wrap around my thigh, rough and squeezing while the corresponding thumb out of sight of the screen gently strokes my skin. Dima's voice is soft, and his lips don't move around his whisper. "Just breathe, do you see her?"

I check each little box with the viewers for a woman with a missing limb again, they all have two arms and two legs. Fucking idiots. Where the fuck is she? I'm officially the worst seeker in the world losing a sex-trafficked girl with one arm. There can't be hundreds of them, never mind thousands, so she should be somewhere.

Lips touch below my ear and I flinch away from them. Dima's a fucking prick and doesn't let me move away with his hand going to my nape and the one on my thigh tightening.

"They're watching everyone, act like you've been taught to."

I want to scream. I haven't been taught to be in this situation. I'm the hands behind the scenes. The organizer. The person who collects the cheques and scolds the tears. Not the one people touch, or even talk to.I'm the ghost and I'm not meant to be here.

His hand goes further up my thigh, and I can't stop myself trying to push it away. The dickhead announcer is honed in on us and the dark robotic laugh floats through.

"Room thirteen is in the process of training for those of you interested."

A sigh touches my neck, we both know what it means, and Dima is a bigger asshole by blaming me.

"See what you fucking did?"

The sides of the ski mask protrude as he clenches his jaw and forces me to my knees.

No.

He wouldn't. He'd tell me first so I can prepare. Shutting my eyes so I can go to the filing cabinet, I ignore the hand holding my hair and how many more strands will be leaving with it.

Breathe in, breathe out , breath in .

And my eyes open as he undoes his belt then guides my head forward. The mask is in place, stopping any contact and the cunt pretends he fucking cares as he gently lifts it up enough to uncover my mouth. It blocks my eyes, and I can't see anything but his covered inner thighs as I wait for the material to go lax. He shifts in the seat and the announcer points out which rooms are entertaining, the sick cunt.

My jaw locks shut when I see something that looks like skin. It's not his dirty penis moving towards me. He fits his hand under the ledge of the mask and gently holds my jaw, his finger softly brushing the sides feeling it tense. I don't like it, it's too warm and not perverted so my brain can't make sense of what's happening. The bastard is pulling my hair out despite his gentle movements as he rocks my head to fake the image of me blowing him.

TRR was the last place I had to look for Nina. If she isn't there, I'm more lost than ever. The little voice that's been following me for years whispers its unhelpful shit.

Because she's dead.

She can't be. If Nina's dead, then I don't have a goal. If I don't have a goal, I have nothing. There's no salvation for me if I can't save her. There are no smiles from someone who knows everything, saw everything I did. There's nothing if she's dead.

Focusing on anything but my continued worthlessness, I count while Dima keeps rocking my head. He's not doing it in long strokes so he must have a small dick. I've never seen him take steroids, he works out a lot and it would make sense with his physique for it to be small. I wonder if it's so small it looks like an outie belly button. Jameson's was like that, a little nub, and his nipples protruded more than his penis because he kept taking steroids and Anton used to make jokes that he needs a child because it's small.

Bile burns the back of my throat at the memories, all the sick shit they used say and do to normalize their depraved business. I spent years thinking there was something wrong with me because I've always had this voice telling me what they're doing is wrong, but I know I'm right. Even now it's there, it's quieter and I focus on the fact Dima is still pushing my head in short strokes as he tilts his hips back, making sure I don't touch his nasty body.

My lips twitch, wanting to laugh at the thought, and his thumb and fingers move, tracing them. Mouthing ‘little nub' like he'll be able to translate it, they keep twitching and his other hand in my hair goes to my nape. The soft stroking comes back, and he holds my head still, pretending to release.He holds my head down for a few seconds before he fixes the mask back in place and picks me up like I'm a fucking child who is incapable of standing on my own to sit me back on his thigh. I'm not a fucking kid, I'm an adult. I've been an adult all my life and I don't need him fucking treating me like I can't do things for myself. Obnoxious bastard.

I can't react as I focus on the worst of humanity getting their rocks off to something that's unsanitary and insanity. TRR are unique because they have everything, you can participate or give a request for it to be enacted. There's no limit to their sickness and watching some poor soul be forced to swallow vomit increases my rage.

Dima's voice is soft despite his own anger lingering.

"Don't watch it, close your eyes."

Writing ‘no' on his thigh, I force myself to be a witness.

They're not alone if I'm watching, I might not be able to help them like the other kids, but at least there's one person who will remember them. I'll always know that sick cunts forced them into a life that should never have existed. They're human to me, not just body parts to be bent to my will, and I'll find the fuckers hiding behind their masks and know what to do to each of them before I kill them. Every single one of them who is voting, bidding, fucking while watching the horrific sights on the screen will know what it's like to be humiliated and used for entertainment. It will be my entertainment and if I find the people they're hurting, I'll ask them if they'd like to watch in this same way — a live stream of vengeance.