Loser

by Valerie J. Long

  “You’re trembling,” Rifle noted. “Fear or anticipation?”

  “Evaporation chill,” I corrected dryly.

  “Ah, right, you’re already wet,” Beard joked and let one shoulder go. At the other, he pulled me to the side. “Come into the kitchen, where it’s warm. I don’t want to have my delicate parts frozen off!”

  Chapter Four

  Beard didn’t have mercy with my broken rib. He forced me belly-down on the heavy kitchen table and pulled my arms up, while one of the others pulled my legs apart and then forced a finger into my vagina.

  “Nicely tight,” he judged. Aha, that was Knuckles’ voice, so it had to be his finger.

  The noise of a zipper followed, and then a hard cock pushed against my labia. That way, the gang rape started.

  Each one got his turn. After the first round, I had to recline on my back. Then they started anew. I hoped in vain that they’d be exhausted thereafter—they simply allowed themselves more time. By the time the third had shot his load inside me, the first was hard again. And now?

  “Bring the butter,” Rifle ordered and forced me back on my belly.

  Normally, I’d have no fundamental objections against an ass fuck, but with three guys in a row who didn’t care about me, it became a painful exercise, despite the butter.

  I cried out my pain without restraining myself. Why should I pretend? I was only left with the hope they’d be satisfied after some while.

  Finally, my torture ended. Beard turned me back on my back, held my legs upward and spread out and grinned down on my tits. “Same question. How did you get in?”

  I felt like saying, “Kiss my ass,” but I denied myself this provocation. Instead, I simply kept my mouth shut.

  “Our pretty hasn’t got enough yet,” Knuckles said. “I’ve hoped for that. The water’s almost boiling.”

  I turned my head toward him. Behind him, on the stove, a kettle was steaming. A handle was sticking out. Knuckles grinned. “You know, hot water disinfects. But it can also elicit nice reactions.” Protected by a pot holder, he took the handle and showed me the thirty-centimeters-long blade of a butcher knife. “Freshly ground. Cuts like through butter. Shall we test it?”

  Knife wanted to say something, but Knuckles only laughed. “There’ll be enough left for the boss. I’m sure our kitten only needs a teenie-weenie demonstration, then she’ll eagerly report.”

  “It’s okay,” I croaked—my throat was sore from crying. “I’ll tell you—water, please.”

  Disappointed, Knuckles put the knife away. With relief, I noticed that he didn’t insist on serving me his sample anyway. No, this one went to my pursuers.

  Rifle handed me a glass of sparkling water. Beard let my legs down so that I could sit up—bravely, I ignored my abused, sore ass’s protest. With small sips, I emptied the glass.

  “Now?” Rifle impatiently prompted.

  “Through the window in the renovated tower. The artisans left it open.”

  Beard and Rifle looked at each other. Yes, you could have checked that. If you’d extended your round to the dirty area, I wouldn’t have had a chance to come in.

  “And how did you reach the tower?” Rifle dug deeper.

  “The raw wall has cracks that I could climb up. I’m quite good at climbing.”

  “We’ve seen that. You climbed the roof like a cat. But how did you arrive here in the first place?”

  Their friendly voice couldn’t deceive me. At the moment, they were tame and nice to me, because I was cooperating and because they were reviewing their own failures on their minds. Once they’d processed these, they’d play the tough guys for me again—unless I could convince them before that they wouldn’t need to. Although they just had raped me several times.

  “I came from the sea and climbed up the cliff. Wasn’t easy in that surf, but it worked.” I feigned to muse, and guessed their next question. “It took me quite a while to find that out. It was simply a damn hot challenge.”

  “What do you mean?” Rifle asked. “You don’t want to tell us you broke in here for fun?”

  “Not just. I thought there’d be something to loot. To improve my lifestyle, you know?”

  Come on, buy that. I’m an ordinary thief. I don’t know anything about any cartel.

  “And you only found the secret staircase by chance, did you?”

  “No, that was clearly recognizable in the construction plan. I procured that beforehand.”

  “Well, a thief,” Knuckles mused. “Whom nobody will miss.”

  Oh crap.

  Chapter Five

  After their gang bang, it had become clear that they wouldn’t turn me over to the police. I had more or less hoped they’d beat me up thoroughly and then throw me out. Then I could have found a quiet corner, licked my wounds, and waited for the pain to fade. Now I had to fear they’d turn me into fish fodder—with any luck, without a longer special treatment by sharp knives. I didn’t like this prospect at all.

  “The boss must decide,” Beard came to my rescue.

  With his reply, “He won’t want to know about that,” Rifle reduced me to despair again.

  Beard objected, “But perhaps the boss wants to question her. Or he wants to have his fun. We rarely have such pretty visitors whose trace can’t be followed here. Let’s bring her downstairs.”

  I didn’t like the last remark about his boss, either. What would the boss like so much to do with pretty visitors? Or no, actually I didn’t want to know that. Sadly, my hosts didn’t care for my wishes. On the way to my cell, they showed me the landlord’s playroom.

  The chains hanging from the ceiling, the birdcage, and the large wooden cross didn’t terrify me much. Of course, leather, fetters, and whips belonged here—just the classical SM equipment. I quickly suppressed the burgeoning memories. Somewhat less pleasing were the silver chains with the fishing hooks. But not worse than a piercing, I told myself. Only the large, polished marble table with the brown-and-red-stained grooves all around made me feel uneasy. That went beyond the usual games, and I most definitely didn’t want to play the central role!

  No, I wouldn’t play the central role. Not again. I wouldn’t stay that long.

  For now, I let myself be dragged to a nearby room without resistance. The plain bunk in the windowless cell probably served to establish a certain mood, too.

  “Can I at least have a piss pot?” I asked grumpily.

  Rifle sighed. “You’ll get one. Bart, bring her a bottle of water, too. After all, she should still be alive when the boss arrives.”

  Then he closed the door behind me.

  This door was built in a way that wouldn’t let any light pass through. It was the perfect solitary confinement, with its sensory deprivation suited to break the inmate’s will. However, I had no issues with darkness. There were worse cells—ones that were too small to stand or recline. The construction plans had shown such rooms, too, but here I could make myself comfortable, stretch on the bunk, and tend to my pain. First of all, I had to worry about the rib.

  Bart brought me a large bucket, two plastic bottles with mineral water, and a paper plate with bread and cheese. “This must do until tomorrow,” he said. “There’s no need to shout, we won’t hear you anyway, and you might consider again why you’re here.”

  “Thanks.” For the provisions, but most of all for this important information. I hurried to sort the stuff before he closed the door—the bucket to the foot, food and water to the head. Again it became pitch dark.

  I ate and drank, used the bucket, then I reclined again. My rib needed rest.

  Yes, why was I here? Because I was a thief hoping for some loot. Why was I thief? Because I had to give up my old job. Why? Well, I’d better start from the beginning.

  Part Two—School

  Chapter Six

  From the beginning, I’ve been a classical loser, at least that’s what I always told myself. My parents didn’t have much money, because my father had lost his job after the big bank cras
h, and they were muddling through. It sufficed to prevent starving or freezing, but not much more. It didn’t show in basic school, at least I don’t remember anything special. Then I joined comprehensive school.

  “Good morning!”

  Twenty-seven pairs of eyes focused on the thin man with metal-rimmed glasses and mustache, who tossed his worn briefcase unerringly on the teacher’s desk.

  “My name is Heinz Herbert, and I’m your new class teacher. Just learned ‘bout it yesterday, as my colleague fell sick and won’t come back for a while. I’m teaching German and English. I’m thirty-three years old, and my hobbies are skiing and reading. So, now it’s your turn. We’ll start at the front left. Introduce yourself, your name, what your parents are doing, your hobbies. Who are you?”

  I couldn’t remember all names from the start. Yusuf, Marco, Torben, Selina, Gülcan, another Selina, Michael, Werner, Amir—finally it was my turn. “My name is Johanna Meier, and I’m eleven years old. My hobbies are gymnastics and running.”

  I guess I’d rather have had other hobbies. But as my parents couldn’t afford anything, that was nearly all I knew. “Go out and run,” was all I ever heard when I complained about boredom.

  “And your parents?” Mr. Herbert asked.

  “My mother cleans, and my father is unemployed,” I replied truthfully. At that moment, I hadn’t noticed yet, but I had just sealed my fate. Loser.

  The next pupil continued. Once we all were through, Mr. Herbert explained us how we would proceed. Timetable, school books, what exercise books and pens we’d need—my mother would be upset, because the remainders from the fourth class of course wouldn’t do—and so on. I longed for the break.

  Curious, I approached a group of classmates who had formed a tight circle. All held something in their hands—aha, mobile phones. Of course I didn’t have one, as it was much too expensive. Nevertheless, I’d liked to have a look at one, but I hadn’t even got far enough to push my way into the circle, when one of the boys turned around and told me right into my face, “Get lost, you stink.”

  The others gave me evil looks and nodded. That was too much. I turned away, ran to the john and wept.

  Gülcan found me there in my misery. The worst fit was already over, so I only sobbed on quietly.

  “Hey, Jo, what’s goin’ on?”

  “He said I stink,” I pressed out.

  “Who?”

  “The red-haired—with the checkered shirt.”

  “Oh, Stef. Don’t listen to him.”

  “The others agreed.”

  “His clique? Mmm.”

  “Do I really stink?”

  Gülcan looked away. “Mmm—yes, well, you really don’t smell all fresh.”

  “I’ve washed myself in the morning, as always. Everywhere. Really.”

  She wrinkled her nose and examined me more closely. “And your tee shirt?”

  I looked down at myself. “It’s clean. No stain, I’ve looked.”

  “No—is it fresh?”

  “Well—yes. I only put it on the day before yesterday.”

  “The day before yesterday?” Gülcan’s puzzled question showed me that something was wrong with my view of the world. “So you’ve already worn that for three days?”

  “Counting today, yes.”

  “And it smells. Jo, why didn’t you dress in a fresh one?”

  My name is Johanna, not Jo, but I was so glad Gülcan was talking with me that I didn’t correct her. Then I had to be Jo. I still didn’t understand where I had failed. Mama had only recently stopped arranging my clothes for me.

  “It was clean,” I insisted.

  “I wear a different top every day,” Gülcan explained. “You should do that, too.”

  “That’s not possible. Mama says, if you wash the clothes too often, they’ll wear out sooner. Besides, detergent is expensive.” That much I knew. I didn’t know back then that our old washer also needed a lot of expensive power and water, but it was another reason why my Mama didn’t wash often.

  Gülcan understood quickly. “You can’t afford it? Oh, Jo, that’s sad. But you do have several shirts, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. In different colors.” In a discount sale, Mama had bought a big pile in different colors. I’d wanted a tee shirt with a print, but that wasn’t possible. Perhaps I’d be able to afford one, if I collected my little pocket money for another year.

  “Then you’ll wear another tomorrow,” Gülcan decided. “And the day after tomorrow another again. Then you put the clean, used ones to airing.”

  I gave her a thankful glance. Yes, that was a solution that Mama would surely allow.

  Chapter Seven

  “Are you coming to the dancing school disco tonight?” Gülcan asked. “Entrance fee is only three Euro.”

  “Three Euro?”

  “I can lend you some, if you’re tight. I know I’ll get it back.” Gülcan understood my situation. My pocket money was practically nonexistent. If we had a few coins to spare, Papa carried them to the pub, as Mama bitterly commented during his absence. Or he found a temp job for a few days, then proudly brought something that he had bought with his pay, and the money was gone, too. Mama wasn’t happy with that, but could accept it. Once it was a new pan, another time it was a pullover that she had admired in an ad, and once it was a new jeans for me—we couldn’t really be angry with him.

  I made my ends meet because I helped myself. “Thank you, I’ve collected enough money from deliveries, but I wanted to save for a pair of Chucks.” I pointed at the worn-out, ragged cheap footwear that had carried me through the summer. No dog with the least self-esteem would want to chew on them.

  “What a pity.” Gülcan put up her puppy face. “Please, Jo!”

  “Well, okay.”

  Then I had to find another distributor, or a different solution. I should cram for physics instead, and I hadn’t really understood math yet. Mama and Papa both couldn’t help me, and Gülcan struggled with the subject, too. But the teacher was interesting and demanding, and I didn’t want to appear stupid to him.

  “Ey, great! New Chucks—did you get a discount?” Gülcan admired my shoes.

  “In a way.” To me, the red-white, brand new shoes looked drop-dead fashionable, too. I was very happy that Gülcan had immediately noticed them. This way, I could show up in the disco!

  “Mmm—found?” my friend guessed with a wink.

  “Yes, so to say.” Stolen. You had to get along. You can’t have it all, Mama always said, and I didn’t want to have it all. “I’m already working so hard, and still it doesn’t work out. Some obstacles simply have to be overcome creatively.”

  “Don’t you fear getting caught?”

  “I do. Mama would be sad, and Papa probably would beat me up. And I need trouble with the cops as much as athlete’s foot. So I don’t let myself get caught.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Hey, I don’t tell my tricks. I’ll only say this much—I examine the store thoroughly first. Where are the cameras, how attentive is the staff, where are the exits, how many customers are around, how’s the stuff secured.” Then I left the shop alone for a while. I didn’t want a store detective take notice of a young girl who was more interested in the cameras than in the merchandise for several days in a row. It was better if nobody remembered me.

  Then I went in, had a look, went out without showing nervousness. Like a normal customer who hadn’t found anything suitable.

  “Only as an exception.” Gülcan made a face when she noticed my stern glance. “I really try to work for my stuff.”

  “Yes, okaaay. Shall we enter?”

  Chapter Eight

  “Why didn’t you come to the party last night?” Gülcan asked briefly before the start of the physics lesson.

  I quickly scribbled the last homework solution into my exercise book, then I looked up. “What party?”

  “A student party at the beach in Kastel. It was so cool, with smooching and all.”

/>   “I didn’t know.”

  Gülcan pouted. “Really sad. I can’t wait for the next action.”

  Should I really be curious? Or pretend I didn’t care? Aw crap, I didn’t have to pretend with Gülcan. “Anything planned already?”

  “No idea. It always happens on short notice. One comes up with the idea, finds two others who help organizing, and then the word spreads out. An hour later, it starts.”

  “And how do you know?”

  “Simply texted.” She stared at me. “Oh crap, Jo!”

  Yes, crap, Jo. No mobile phone, no SMS, no party. Very easy. That’s how it is if you live at the edge of poverty. At the bottom edge.

  “You need a mobile phone,” Gülcan decided. “It needn’t be the latest model. Prepaid. If you restrain yourself, you’ll get off cheap. I only text a few times a day, that way one charge lasts a month.”

  I only stared at her. One prepaid card per month? Where should I take the money from? You couldn’t deliver that many newspapers. And the mobile phone itself…with a sigh, I turned away.

  “You can’t—procure something?”

  I had already considered that. “No. First, those are well secured and second, I also need the charger. No, I’d have to buy one.”

  “You could have a look at eBay. Come visit us this afternoon, and we’ll see.”

  At least she remembered that we didn’t own a computer. The school computers were beleaguered by the higher classes, so there I got access once every three months. I could watch, that way I picked up a little, but surfing on my own simply didn’t happen. Instead, Gülcan sometimes let me use her computer, primarily if we had to google something for homework.