by Soraya Naomi
I get simple food, I sleep, I’m shot up with heroin underneath my fingernails, instead of the inside of my elbow, often, and I’m auctioned; that’s the routine. For the next five months.
My body is damaged deeply. Emotionally, I’m empty.
But I’m also getting mad. Mad at Fat Sal. Mad at myself for taking it all, for not being able to fight because I’m too drugged up.
*
Two years and five months ago
I’m constantly slipping in and out of consciousness while I’m held at Club 7’s dungeon. Days pass in a blur of memories. I barely remember conversations with anyone except Santino. Time is a foreign concept to me. In moments of lucidity, I hear myself screaming. I hear lashes, crowds cheering, grunts, and silence.
Santino is the only man that guards me. I cling to him, begging for help, telling him to stop giving me drugs. He never tends to the other girls, and I don’t know why, but I use it to my advantage when I’m coherent enough to remember that bit of information.
After I’m struck with a fever, he finally begins to crack.
One morning, I wake up less disoriented than I’ve been in a long time. My eyes open, and I feel as if I’ve been asleep for weeks. Rational thoughts are trying to assemble in my mind.
I turn my head in the dimly lit, beige room and determine that I’m alone. Moving my body underneath a cotton sheet, I grimace from soreness. I know I’ve been here for a while but not the exact time frame.
A clang sounds when I move my leg. I sit up and wince, finding my left ankle shackled to the bed frame.
Footsteps from down the hall come closer, and Santino darkens the doorway in a black suit, staring at me with his hands in his pockets.
I pull the sheet up to cover my breasts, even though he’s seen me naked constantly.
“How are you feeling?” His tone is even, calm.
“Not good.” My own voice sounds foreign. “What day is it?” I cough through my dry throat.
“Tuesday,” he answers and shifts closer.
I follow his movement carefully.
He takes a bottle of water from the nightstand and uncaps it, handing it over.
With a hesitant hand, I raise it to my mouth and gulp down the entire contents.
“You had a fever,” he mentions, towering over me beside the low, small bed.
The water hydrates my throat soothingly as he just stands there.
“How long have I been out?” I ask again softly and grimace because my fingernails hurt.
“Two days.”
“How long have I been here in total?”
Stillness eats the room.
“Please.”
“Four months,” he answers tersely.
“Please help me,” I murmur.
He’s on me the next moment, straddling my hips and pinning my hands to the pillow. The bottle drops to the floor.
Acute distress courses through my veins as he leans in close to my ear. “I’m not going to hurt you, but there are cameras everywhere. Stop talking so much.”
I stiffen in his hold. “Are you going to help me?”
“I have helped you. You were feverish and were out for too long; I’ve decreased and then stopped your shots. But no one can know.”
A dampened sense of relief blazes over me. I haven’t been drugged for the past few days; that’s why I feel more aware now. “Why are you helping me?”
He ignores my question. “Why did you come down that night? It’s your own fault this happened!”
Why is he so upset about it? Is it his doing that the elevator went down and I accessed this part of the club?
“Don’t speak too articulately and let on that the drugs are leaving your system. If I find you talking to anyone, I’ll inject you,” he warns and storms off.
“No!” I scream and clamp my hand over my mouth, afraid he’ll come back with a needle if I’m not quiet.
There’s something in him wanting to help me, and I take full advantage of that the next few weeks.
I’m nauseous and cold, yet still feverish, for days. My body is going through withdrawal, and at night, Santino gives me sedatives. Everything hurts, and sometimes I even ask for a shot just to make the throbbing disappear, but he drags me through withdrawal.
For three weeks, I’m not auctioned since I’m too sick and too undesirable.
Yet that doesn’t last. I’m not sure if Santino has protected me from Fat Sal these last few weeks, but now they’re whispering back and forth in the doorway. Sal wants to check on me, and then I overhear him saying to Santino that it’s not normal for me to be this ill for weeks.
Sal jams him out of the way and points his finger at me. “You’re working tonight. I have a special surprise for you.”
Panic rapidly rises. We’re quiet until we can’t hear Sal’s departing footsteps anymore.
“I’m going back out there?” I cry softly and sit up. “I don’t know if I can handle that without drugs.”
“We have to go now.” He pays no attention to my tears and loosens my ankle cuff.
Santino leads me through the long corridor to the fight club. The scent of blood and sweat saturates the air.
We reach the area and stand in line by the door behind three other girls with two other guards. My vision of the center stage is blocked by the others, but it’s quiet inside the club.
A gong bangs, and I gasp, startled.
Santino’s hand covers my mouth roughly. “Shut up!”
I reach for his arm to make him let go, but then he’s pushing something inside my mouth, a pill.
“Take it. It will numb you from the pain,” he whispers against my ear.
Sheer dread makes me swallow it, and then I’m being rushed forward to a round mahogany table with a centerpiece of red roses. One yellow spotlight shines on the table.
The concrete is cold against the soles of my feet. There are a dozen men all sitting around the table in casual attire, and the rest of the space is empty and desolate.
Their hungry gazes slide unnervingly over my bare body, and then my eyes meet Sal’s, and he holds out his hand to us.
A lump forms in my throat.
“Here’s our meal, gentlemen. On the table.” He snaps his fingers, and the guards place all four of us on it.
My mind is becoming fuzzy, and I start to feel lighter – the effect of the pill – but terror stays. Lying on the edge with the spotlight in my face, I close my eyes and turn my head and shriek when a hand touches my breast. My hands and legs are held in place and spread apart. I jerk my head around and see that the same is being done to the other girls.
Sal yells over our cries, “The rules, my slaves, are no screaming and no jumping off the table.”
Pavarotti starts to play in the background of this ceremonial display.
All the men laugh while one pinches my nipple, and they release me. I cover my breasts with my arms, and a whip comes down on my hip. I curl up and shout from the pain of the sting, but I’m crudely spread apart again by many hands.
Then plates of food are being placed around me.
Tears stream down my face when I feel nasty tingles on the swell of my breasts. Girls are now moaning instead of screaming.
“You little slut; you like that,” a rough voice says.
I’m being touched between my legs, and I cringe from the filthy contact.
As pain shoots through my breasts, I’m too exhausted to continue struggling. Blinking profusely through the tears to clear my vision, I look down my side and hysteria erupts at the sight of the blood trails running down my body. The man next to the table holds up a knife with my blood dripping from the tip and licks it off.
I gag, but nothing comes up. Then I’m being lifted off the table like a china doll by my shoulders and knees and taken away.
“No more,” I beg with my head hanging back.
“Come on…” It’s Santino who took me away. “Stand on your feet.”
We’re in the bathroom, and he’s pla
ced me under the shower. Santino sets a first aid kit on the sink and waits until I’m done.
I look at the thin red lines on my breasts and bend forward, vomiting. Agony and nausea dominate my current state. I need to get out of here because I refuse to live through that again.
Turning away from Santino, I block him out. He takes a step back and allows me to wash my body but leaves the shower curtain open.
The cuts on my skin prickle when the warm water cleans them, crimson streams down my stomach. I let the water splutter on my face, making me less dizzy and more aware.
I don’t trust Santino, but he has helped me, and I’ve sensed him conceding more and more the last few weeks when he’s here. I need to use that now; he has an attraction to me.
I’m trying to stay awake; however, I feel sleep pulling at me – it must be the effect of the pill, but I don’t know what I swallowed. After brushing my teeth in the shower for what seems like forever, I motion for him to join me to talk while the water runs, hoping it will drown out our conversation for the cameras in here.
He reluctantly comes forward, and his gaze drops to my lips. I lick them and block out my circumstances.
“You have to help me get out, Santino,” I dare to use his name.
He slowly moves me backward.
“Dead spot,” he whispers, and we move to the corner of the shower.
“Santino,” I utter frantically because I don’t know how long I’ll have him alone, and this is my window. I clear all other thoughts out of my mind. “You have to help me.”
He touches my cheek.
“Help me.” And I press my lips to his. His hands tangle in my wet hair, and even though my body hurts, I play along.
He pulls back, breathing hard. “I want to...”
He’s so close, and I need to convince him, so I press my body against his.
“...but I don’t know how,” he finishes.
“Let me escape. You must know this place? There must be a way. I’m lucid enough to run now.” He keeps staring at me blankly. “Santino!” I prompt.
“I need a plan.”
“There’s no time for a plan. Anything you can come up with?!” My palms rest on his suit jacket that’s wet now too.
I can see him contemplating his options. “The hostess has been asking about you. She’s the one that got you into the sex club, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can she keep a secret?” he asks.
I have no idea since she’s just an acquaintance, not a close friend, but I lie, “Yes.”
“There are a lot of corridors here, and you’ll need to run alone,” he informs, raising his brow, thinking it might dissuade me.
My shoulders straighten, and I almost can’t believe he’s going to help me. I think that kiss, along with his apparent guilt, convinced him to let me go. He told me before that he knew me from when I worked upstairs – I never noticed him, but I omitted that piece of information.
“Fine.” I’ll agree to anything as long as I get a chance to escape, but I need shoes. “I need shoes and clothes.”
“I’m going to cuff you to the bed as usual. I’ll be back as soon as I can. If someone comes, pretend you’re drugged out,” he says.
I dry hurriedly and want to ask what he’s going to do, but from then on, everything happens so fast.
Before I know it, he’s shackling my ankle and out the door. I’m hoping he also realizes that now is our window since Sal is still attending his psychotic ceremony.
Minutes tick by, and I wait in the room with the door open. I don’t know what’s happening to the other girls. They’ve not been brought back yet. As I wait, mistrust fills me. There’s a good chance he was lying. And as time passes, that sense keeps growing.
I’m still struggling to stay awake. And eventually, I fear he’s not coming back.
I turn on my side in defeat, and suddenly conscious of the burning in my blemished breasts, tears pool over as I break down. I bite my lip to keep from making any noise and cry alone in the dark, silently. And then I lose consciousness.
“...wake up…”
My shoulders shake, and my eyes fly open as a hand smothers my scream.
“Let’s go,” Santino says in a soft voice with a finger to his lips, motioning for me to stay quiet. He undoes the shackles and hurries me with him into the long hallway.
“They’re still at the ceremony. Your friend is upstairs at the elevator now with clothes.” He stops at a corner. “Go left here, straight ahead, then take the first right. Run to the elevator at the end and go to ‘-1’. Your friend is waiting on that floor. She’ll take it from there. Do you understand?”
I nod, wanting to get out as soon as possible. “Yes.” I hesitate to say more. “Thank you.” And I bolt before he changes his mind.
I round the corner and run straight ahead in the empty hall and stop to peek around the corner before turning right. It’s empty, so I race to the end, not concerned about my naked, battered body. My only goal is getting out of here.
I run to the grey doors of the elevator at the end of the hall, anxiously glancing back over my shoulder.
They open, and I step inside the small space, pressing ‘-1’ relentlessly.
“Close!” I practically pray when I hear voices coming down the hall.
The doors close, and I sag against the cold metal wall as I ascend, holding my breath again as they open.
“Camilla!” My friend’s eyes widen in horror when she witnesses my state.
I breathe a sigh of relief, and she comes inside, ramming fabric and ballet flats into my hands. “Get dressed. We’re going up.”
I yank the black uniform dress over my head and step into the shoes just as the doors open again. I’m back on the main floor.
Hope causes new tears to burst free, but I wipe them away as she hauls me through an archway.
We go down a hall lined with Andy Warhol posters to another door that opens outside into the cold and windy street. Not the front entrance of Club 7, though, so it’s quiet.
I’m so thankful to be here that I don’t think about anything beyond running, but I do remember I don’t have my purse with my wallet and personal belongings or any money.
“I need money,” I say, pleading.
“Oh shit!” she mutters. “Wait here.”
She returns through the archway and hurries back to me with my purse. “Santino told me to give you your bag.” She thrusts it and a little square box into my hands. “Go home, pack your things, and disappear!”
I check the heavy box in my hand. “What’s this?”
“Protection. It’s a small bomb.”
I hold it away from me. “This tiny thing?”
“Yes, button is on the side. Be careful. I couldn’t find a handgun or anything else on such short notice. Go!”
Scared that I’m going to be caught, I dash into the next street with only a few pedestrians crossing my path.
I hail the first cab I see, go home to grab one bag of belongings. And on my way out of the Loop, I stop by the ATM to withdraw most of my money, keeping some in my bank account just in case.
*
The night Santino helped me escape was two years and five months ago. But I was on the run for only a short while.
I’d rented a room outside the Loop and landed a job where I was paid under the table. It was a lonely existence, but I was doing my best to build a new life. Then I was fired from my job after James and Luca visited the establishment, and I ended up working for them as a bartender in their strip club – where I met Adriano.
CHAPTER 5
Camilla
I dash away the lone tear from the corner of my eye as I dodge a car to cross the street. There isn’t a waiting line for the ATM, and as I head toward it, a pedestrian bumps me as he passes on the sidewalk.
I reach it and hesitate to withdraw money. Still, I get my cash and grab the two twenty dollar bills and go into the hole-in-the-wall diner across the street.
&n
bsp; While ordering a coffee, I see a man vacating a table and swoop in, sitting with my back to the wall, facing the ATM through the window.
All I have to do is wait. Wait for whoever comes for me first: Fat Sal or the Syndicate?
Fear was beaten out of me a long time ago by Fat Sal, but the unknown is still a scary thing to be expecting.
From deep within my heart, hope sparks – hope that the first person I’ll recognize is Adriano. That he’s here to help me.
Even though our relationship was volatile, there was something exceptional about us. He’d make me laugh, try to seduce, and joke about my refusals. But eventually, he became frustrated, and mad, and acted out. When I’d reject him, he’d be an ass. He didn’t know how to handle being turned down by a woman; it was new territory for him. And when I finally gave in, he didn’t know how to deal with his emotions. Back then, neither did I.
*
One year and eleven months ago
After three and a half months of working at the strip club, Adriano finally wears me down.
From the first time I met him, he’d fawn over me, but when I’d reject him, he’d flirt with a stripper. At first, I thought it was to make me jealous and lure me, but whenever he was flirting shamelessly with another girl, he wouldn’t glance in my direction. Then I started doubting and reminded myself that he’s a flirt.
After getting to know Adriano better, I knew he was doing it to make me jealous. Once, I caught him briefly eyeing me before encouraging a girl’s advances. Since he was always throwing around winks, I winked at him, turned on my heel, and left him. Then I smiled triumphantly.
We’d become close, I felt like I was getting to know him. The real him, not the clown or flirt he always was in public. But our relationship evolved oddly. We were so close, yet so far away from each other. We’d joke around, we’d flirt, we’d lie in bed together and just talk, a tentative friendship turned into a deep affection.