Page 101 of Buried in Blood
“I know.” But she does anyway.
A weak one. Tight at the corners. Crooked.
I reach for the thin black ribbon and tie it around her throat.
Her voice is almost inaudible. “Do you think I’ll be chosen?”
I pause. “Yes,” I say.
Because it’s the truth. Because she’s young, beautiful, and moldable. Because she was never meant to survive this place.
She lowers her gaze. “Will he be proud of me?”
I can’t answer that.
Instead, I tighten the bow and stand.
“Let’s go.”
She rises, hands trembling just slightly—and I realize she’s not as far gone as I thought.
She’s still scared.
Good.
Scared means there’s still something left inside her.
I lead her to the door and knock twice.
Reese is waiting outside with the clipboard. He doesn’t look at her. He looks at me.
“Room five.”
I nod.
Brooke walks ahead, heels clicking across the floor like countdowns.
One click.
Two.
Three.
And at six p.m., she will be sold to the highest bidder.
I wait until she’s gone. Then I slip into the bathroom and vomit quietly into the sink. Because there’s no one left to hold my hair back. No one left to whisper that this isn’t my fault.
Just the girl in the mirror—with makeup-stained hands, and a heart full of silent screams.
And the clock that won’t stop ticking.
* * *
The rec room doesn’t look like the place where prisoners used to work out.
Tonight, it’s a cathedral. The song “The Dope Show” by Marilyn Manson booms around the walls.
Every light dimmed, except the ones aimed at the stage. The bleachers were removed. The walls were draped in black. A raised platform was placed at the center, bordered by heavy velvet curtains and a gold-trimmed podium that gleams like an altar.
