Suffer the Flesh

Chapter 3

She lay in the dark, quivering, her vagina twitching and spasming like a separate life form, no longer part of her body. She wondered what she’d done wrong. Something terrible to justify this happening to her. Punishment for some heinous act that she couldn’t recall?

Because that was how this felt—like punishment.

Whispers in the dark. Church whispers, airy breaths sharing secrets. Was someone in her cell? No. Even in the darkness she knew she was alone. The cell was small, and she would have detected another presence.

“Huh-h-h’lo…” she whimpered.

The sound again. Tiny whisper, a puff of air. “Over here.”

Zoey’s knees trembled as they tried to support her weight. Every part of her body ached. Wary of the pain, she stood, hobbled the few feet to the corner of the cell. Pressed her face against the bars.

“We’re not supposed to talk to you yet,” the voice muttered. “Do as they say and you’ll be okay.”

“Who are you?” Her fingers wrapped around the cold steel.

“What’s happened to me? Why are they doing this?” The only response to her questions was a series of hushes, warnings to be quiet, from what sounded like a half dozen voices.

“Please,” Zoey sobbed, “tell me.”

No one answered. Zoey stumbled back to her cot.

Heard them talking to one another, quietly at first, their voices rising in sound and pitch. No one talked to her.

Back pressed against the stone wall, knees drawn up to her chest. She stretched the T-shirt over her legs. That frustrated ache in her heart was back, that bizarre hollow feeling that made her want to scream and cry, the feeling of dread and despair. The not knowing that made this worse. How much worse could it possibly get? She’d been raped. Not once but repeatedly. What else could they possibly do to her? Trying not to think about it didn’t work. It couldn’t get worse than gang rape, could it? It was impossible to imagine anything worse.

The overhead lights blazed on, white filaments blinding her, and she blinked the vision back into her eyes. Movement down the hall as women poured through the cell doors that had clanged open.

An announcement from the end of the corridor: “Everyone out. I won’t say it again.”

She remembered the last time she had disobeyed and rushed after the others as they filed down the hall, her body bewailing every step.

Dressed like Zoey in long gray T-shirts, shoeless, none of the women spoke. Her jailers, torturers, dressed in black, leaning against the wall at the head of the crowd. They brandished whips, and some slapped the handles into their palms. One wielded a billyclub.

A guard grabbed Zoey’s arm on her way out the door. “You’re new. Do what you’re told and you might survive your stay here.”

“My stay?”

The woman who had spoken was around Zoey’s height but was about forty pounds lighter. How easy it would be for Zoey to overpower her… but she didn’t like the odds. The outside corridor was crowded with these guards.

The woman poked a finger into Zoey’s collarbone. “Never speak unless given permission. Understand?”

Zoey swallowed, nodded.

“This is where you eat, and where you get your assignments.”

Assignments? So many questions… she pleaded with her eyes, begging to speak, was ignored.

The room was arranged cafeteria-style, banquet tables with seats for ten. She was ushered into a food line and handed a tray. She sure as hell didn’t have much of an appetite. In the corner of the room sat the medical team that had gang-raped her. Blood drained from her head and she staggered back, grasping the edge of a table. Her legs trembledand then betrayed her, dropping her to her knees on the linoleum. Her tray clattered

to the floor, the food spilling.

Two men flanked her, grabbed her arms, pulled her back to her feet. When they looked in the direction she stared, they laughed. “You’ll get used to it, sweetheart.” The man, so young, such a baby face, deceitfully cherubic, playfully slapped her cheek. “Sit down. I’ll bring you some food.”

At the table, she searched faces, women with hair plastered to their scalps, appalling welts on faces and forearms and legs, pus oozing from gashes, swollen lips and cobalt bruises mottled on cheeks, beneath eyes. They spoke to one another but ignored Zoey, even when she tried to join in their conversations.

Another tray of food was set in front of her, but the contents were unappealing. She drank the coffee.

The man who brought her the tray sat beside her, crossed his leg over his knee. “Hi, Zoey,” he said, toothy grin. “You’ll be seeing a lot of me. I’m James. I run the place.” When he extended his hand, she hesitantly shook it, revulsion exploding on her flesh. “Just do what you’re told and you’ll be okay.”

She blinked. He was the third or fourth person to say that to her. Just how long were they planning to keep her there? Where in hell was she?

“I’m going to give you your first assignment. First give me your wrist.”

She hesitated and then slowly extended her hand toward him. He slipped a leather bracelet over her wrist and snapped it shut. “See? It’s not always about pain. I’ll tell you something else, Zoey—don’t ever hesitate like that again. Not everyone is as understanding as I am. Clear?”

Lines of communication had been reduced to a series of head jerks, and she nodded.

“Good! First assignment—report to Room One. You have ten minutes.”

The room began to clear. Women limped into the hallway. She studied the bracelet. Simple leather. Metal ring suspended on the outside against the back of her hand. The ends were clamped shut; this thing wasn’t going anywhere. Room One then.

Christ. The trembling started again. Where was everyone going? She wondered what would happen if she just stayed there. He’d given her ten minutes. What if she took twelve? Fifteen? Two hours? The dread of wondering what was in Room One… was it worse than the punishment waiting for her if she disobeyed?

Legs weak, protesting against carrying her, she followed the group, in search of Room One.