Black Romance - 9 Wishes

Jessie

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The lock popped and the door swung outward, giving way to a bright burst of light.

“Get up.”

Lifting my head, I blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the figure. Virgo was standing with his hand out, his brows furrowed into the bridge of his nose.

Pushing myself up off the ground, I took his hand and let him help me up. “What day is it?” I asked, rubbing my eyes, trying to adjust to the sudden onslaught of light.

“It’s Wednesday.” His voice was deep and harsh, not caring at all that I had spent three days in that room. “And you need to get back to work.”

My entire body ached, my muscles tight and tender from being cramped in the small room. Pins and needles started to ripple up my legs, sending electric snaps across the skin.

“Can I shower first?” Keeping my head on my feet, the light hurt my eyes, giving me an instant headache. “And maybe something to eat?”

Grumbling, Virgo yanked me along, making me walk faster than my tired legs could carry me. “We’re not a fucking hotel, Jessie, you should know that by now. Then again, there’s a lot you should know, and yet you still like to fuck with me.” His nostrils flared as he looked down at me. “You have one hour in your room to do whatever the hell you need to. Don’t make me come looking for you, you won’t like what happens if I have to come get you.” Giving me a firm push, Virgo stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching me go up to my room.

I didn’t argue. The last thing I wanted was to be tossed back into that room, with just water to hold me over. I got lucky this time, my only punishment was the solitude. I wasn’t sure why he hadn’t sent someone to hurt me.

Maybe he had given up on physical pain because I didn’t react to it like the other girls. I didn’t scream, I didn’t beg them to stop. I shut down and escaped into my mind, refusing to let him gain any satisfaction from my suffering.

Or maybe he just knew that being completely alone was far worse to me than any pain he could try and drum up. It was awful not being able to talk to anyone else there, but at least knowing people were around me felt less lonely than none at all.

Making my way into my room, I flopped my body onto the thin mattress, curling up into the smallest ball I could. I wanted to cry, I could feel the water as it crept up over the thin edge of my lids, but I didn’t, instead forcing it back down into the depths of my soul where everything else lived.

I didn’t cry anymore. There was no point in shedding a tear over shit I couldn’t control. That part of me, the human part that had feelings and emotions didn’t exist anymore. I had locked everything up, hoping that one day I’d be able to unleash them all and live normally.

The only emotion I could feel at all was hate.

Hate for Virgo.

Hate for this godforsaken place.

Hate for anyone who stepped foot in the club.

I wanted to kill them all.

What did that make me? Was I a monster too?

I didn’t feel like a monster. But what do you call someone who can only imagine tearing the balls from a client and stuffing them down their throat?

What name do you give to someone who dreams about slicing the throat of a man and basking in his tears as he slowly bleeds to death at their feet?

You’re a fucking monster. But you weren’t born this way, you were created.

Laying down for a few minutes, I reluctantly dragged my ass out of the bed and took a quick shower. Washing my body, I scrubbed my head and nails, watching the dirt swirl in the water at my feet and disappear down the drain.

I wish I was normal. I wish my life hadn’t turned out this way.

Wishes. . . Wishes were God’s way of making you feel even less significant. My mother had called us the innocent, and I believed her. If that was true, then how could he turn his back on the innocent and not listen?

There was a time where I used to pray. I would kneel down every night and send him my heartfelt wishes. Wishes of being found, wishes of being free, wishes of not being in pain anymore.

And all he gave me was silence. I was done praying to someone that never answered.

Throwing on an old pair of leggings and a grungy t-shirt, I made a quick sandwich and ate it as fast as I could.

My room wasn’t much, about the size of a really small dorm. I had a bathroom and a raggedy old couch, a small hotel sized fridge and a closet full of clothes I didn’t pick out. There were bars on my windows, and locks on the outside of my door. Everything was brought to me; food, clothes, hygiene stuff; the bare essentials to keep me alive.

I was as much a prisoner as any other criminal, except my crime was just being alive.