Page 33 of Writhe
I wanted him to bedifferent.
But he wasn’t. He was just like the rest of them. Men always take. Their disgusting greed makes me surrender everything to them willingly or not.
When I close my eyes, I hear his voice, low and hungry, telling me what to do. I see the way he looked at me. God, the way he looked at me—like he liked it. Like he wanted it. Like I was nothing more than something to be used.
But then I remember Theo’s face after. The way his hands trembled when he reached for me. The way his expression twisted, likehewas the one in pain. He looked at me and he was breaking. Was he disgusted? Did he hate me? Is that why he didn’t try to save me? Am I not enough for him?
My stomach lurches, the taste of acid rising in my throat. I swallow it down, curling into myself. My fingers twitch, aching to claw at my skin, to peel it off, to get rid of the feeling of him, but I don’t. I force myself to stay still, muscles locked.
The cell door creaks open. An orderly steps inside, carrying a tray of food. I brace myself, every muscle in my body screaming. I expect a blow. A kick. A handaround my throat. But he doesn’t even look at me. He sets the tray down on the floor and walks out. The door slams shut behind him. No threats. No pain. No punishment.
Why?
The silence is worse. Something is wrong.
I don’t know how long I stay in my room.
Time is slippery here, twisting around itself like a noose. Seconds stretch into hours, hours into lifetimes. The only thing I know is pain—dull, aching, settled deep in my bones. The way he continually rammed his fat fucking dick inside of me with no care of the consequences of my body—I’m thankful there wasn’t a tear. But he came inside of me.
They don’t allow birth control at this facility. If I have that gross potato-looking motherfucker’s baby, I’m going to axe everyone over the head. Because I bet they don’t allow abortions. No. They’d probably make you have the baby, then run experiments on it.Disgusting.
I take back the potato comment. The Doctor isn’t particularly disgusting (except when he’s ramming his dick into me unwillingly), but he’s at least ten years older than me. His blond hair saves him as far as grays, but the crinkles on his face are something he can’t hide.
My muscles scream in protest as I push myself up, the thin mattress clinging to my skin like a second layer of sweat-soaked flesh. My limbs feel leaden, useless.
When the door groans open, I flinch once more.
“Rec time,” an orderly grunts. “Doc’s orders.”
He doesn’t touch me, just steps aside and waits.Weird. Usually, if we take any longer, then we are dragged out of our room. And it is even weirder considering they don’t usually come to our doors. They will just unlock them and wrench them open, silently signaling our need to come out.
I move slowly, testing the weight of my own body, half-expecting to collapse—I don’t. But my core feels like I just did the best workout of my entire life and now I’m paying for the consequences. I drag myself forward—one foot after the other—past the rows of identical doors, past the flickering fluorescent lights that stab into my skull like needles.
When I step into the rec room, that’s when I see him.
Theo.
He’s in the far corner, slouched in a plastic chair, his long legs sprawled out in front of him. His head is bowed, dark hair—greasy and messy—falling into his face, fingers clasped together like he’s holding onto something invisible. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge me.
Anger coils low in my stomach, twisting, writhing.
He knows what he did.
And he won’t even look at me.
I tear my gaze away before my body betrays me. Before something ugly and broken cracks through my carefully constructed numbness. I need to move and find a seat and try to act fucking normal. Am I normal? Not in the fucking slightest.
There’s an open spot at a table near the middle of the room.
Tobias, the tall, lanky guy who mutters to himself about government satellites, sits across from me, shifting a deck of warped playing cards between his fingers. Next to him, Isla picks at her nails, scraping the polish off in jagged flakes. I don’t bother asking her how she got polish. Probably similar to the way Rina gets whatever she wants.
Neither of them acknowledged me at first.
But Isla’s eyes eventually flick up, scanning me. “Haven’t seen you in a couple days.”
I don’t respond.
Tobias keeps shuffling the cards. I stare past them, back at Theo. I want him to look at me. I want him to feel the weight of what he’s done. But he stays there, perfectly still, like a ghost. Like he’s already left his body. How does he have any right to be distraught over what happened to my body?
