Tears of Tess (9 page)

Using
a white piece of cotton, Jagged Scar dried my wrist, before nodding at the
woman.

She
bent over my arm, placing a carbon transfer she plucked from the table,
sticking it to damp flesh. She smoothed it against my skin, making sure the
image adhered before ripping it off, leaving a purplish outline of a barcode.

Discarding
the transfer, she picked up the pen with the black vial and pressed a button.
Whirring mechanical noise vibrated.

Shit,
they were going to tattoo me! I’d never been inked before, never fell in love
with an image enough to want it permanently on my skin, and I definitely didn’t
want a barcode.

“Stop!”

Jagged
Scar pressed his face close as the sharp nick of the tattoo gun tore into my
flesh. Teeny, tiny teeth nipped and sawed.

“Accept
that you are no longer a woman. You are merchandise. And merchandise must have
a barcode for sale.”

I
wanted to spit at him, but refrained. As degrading as it was to be treated like
stock, I bit my lip and bore through it. I would get it lasered off as soon as I
escaped.

The
burn grew fiery hot as seconds turned into minutes.

I
was no longer Tess. I was dollar signs.

Finally,
the tattoo pen cut off with a snarl. I gasped as the woman smeared some sort of
gel over it and wrapped my wrist in plastic.

The
black lines looked obscene against my red, swollen skin. My first tattoo and it
demoted me from dog to shelf produce. A disposable thing. An item. No more. No
less.

My
fight deflated, leaving under an avalanche of unhappiness. Every part hurt: my
heart, body, and soul. I was sucked deep into the pit where snakes and monsters
lived, wallowing in self-pity.

The
woman pulled off her gloves and snapped a fresh pair on. She moved to the end
of the table, positioning herself between my legs. She turned from tattoo
artist to gynaecologist.

Oh,
hell, this is too much.

I
squeezed my eyes, rolling my head to the side. I willed myself to leave this
place, to float and disappear, but her fingers touched and kept me anchored in
despair.

She
inspected between my legs for an eternity before finally patting my thigh like
the good dog I was. I hadn’t barked or nipped. I’d let them own me with not so
much as a whimper.

The
woman unbuckled my legs, and I scissored them tight, locking my knees together.

Jagged
Scar chuckled. “Keeping your legs together won’t save you. There are plenty of
other places to violate.”

I
gulped, and the clatter of the leather straps hitting the metal table sent
goosebumps skittering.

Please,
let this humiliating and degrading inspection be over.

I
opened my mouth to ask to be released, but the crackle of another sterile
packet sky-rocketed my panic. 

The
woman fumbled with something small before facing me with a cruel smile. The
syringe glinted under the spot light. My heart raced. “No. I’ll behave. You
don’t have to drug me. Please.”

The
thought of living a permanent life in a drug haze terrified me more than the
rest of it. The woman didn’t answer and I jerked, trying to get free from the
restraints.

I
couldn’t look away from the syringe, expecting her to inject whatever it was
into my arm, but she didn’t go for that part of my body.

Her
latex covered fingers swiped tangled hair off my neck, and stabbed the thick
needle into soft flesh behind my ear.

I
screamed as a hard bullet shot from the needle, stretching, maiming. 

Withdrawing,
she giggled, saying something in Spanish to Jagged Scar. She threw the syringe
into a bin and picked up an iPhone looking thing. Handing it to Jagged Scar, he
waved it over the latest injury. My skin wouldn’t stop throbbing.

A
sharp series of beeps filled the room.

“Working,
and linked to the barcode,” Jagged Scar muttered.

No!
They didn’t. All my courage and hope for escape was ruined. They’d not only
branded me, they tagged me, too. Even if I did escape, they could fucking
track
me.

Tears
rushed, desperate to be shed. I didn’t realize how much the thought of escape
kept me going. Now, even that had been taken.

I
gulped hard, trying to keep my eyes dry. Jagged Scar released my arms, went
behind me, and dragged the rope from around my neck.

It
took a while to understand I was free, and even longer for my sore body to
move.

Jagged
Scar helped me upright. I grimaced, holding my ribs, not caring my breasts were
exposed.

I
sniffed and tried to sit straighter, but settled for huddling with my eyes down
cast. This was the worst day of my life. No, that was wrong. The worse day was
the day they took me. When Brax was beaten and left to his fate. A sob bubbled
but I swallowed it back. I couldn’t think about Brax, or the nightmare I lived
now.  

A
brown paper bag appeared on my lap. Jagged Scar captured my chin, guiding me to
look into his eyes. “Good girl. You give in to your future. Easier, yes?” He
caressed my cheek—the first kind touch since I arrived in this hell. After the
abuse from Leather Jacket, I wanted to be hugged, tended to. But that would
never happen.

Keep
fighting, Tess. Never stop fighting
.

Heat
seeped into my limbs, dispelling aches and bruises. Fighting was all I had
left. I wouldn’t give in.

I
glared at the woman who’d trapped me so completely with a brand and tag. “I
hate you. One day, you will suffer as your victims suffer. One day, Karma will
come and bite your ass.” I had no idea if my promise would come true, but I’d
make it a life’s mission to bring the wrath of the law on their heads and save
innocent women.

I
hated them. I hated everything. 

Jagged
Scar huffed and stole the paper bag from my hands. Opening it, he grabbed the
clothes and threw them at me. “Get dressed.”

I
caught the items and slid gingerly off the chair. I pulled the brown sweater
over my head, wincing and gasping. The white knickers were next, followed by a
pair of thigh-high socks. Nothing else.

They
effectively dressed me as a doll. A broken doll with no worth.

But
I was past caring about superficial things like wardrobes. The clothing offered
protection, even if the thigh-high socks itched and the jumper wasn’t warm; at
least I wasn’t nude.

The
woman forced a hairbrush into my palm and I took it hesitantly. Was this it?
Was I being moved?

I
worked through my messy tangles before handing the brush back. My skin smelled
of cheap soap and my hair was brittle with no conditioner, but I felt better.
More prepared to face whatever came next. 

My
new tattoo itched beneath the bandage, and I wanted to rip it off to see the
barcode in more detail. Could they scan me now? What details were imbedded in
the mark?

They
hadn’t asked any personal information. They didn’t care who I was. Only what I
was becoming.

Something
to be sold.

*Owl*

T
hree
days ticked past
.

Our
little cell, the routine of food twice a day, and hushed conversations helped
numb me into some sort of acceptance. My body was bruised in places I’d never
seen and my rib ached. After everything we’d been through, I loathed just
sitting there.

Every
passing hour, I grew angrier. Sitting on the moth-riddled bunk bed, I welcomed
the heat of temper. I wanted something to happen. Regardless of what it was, waiting
silently killed me. Boredom itched worse than the new tattoo.

The
flickering bulb clicked off, and I stared into blackness. A lot of my roommates
drifted into vacancy—conversations few and desolate. I refused to partake. I
didn’t want to reminisce about the situation; I wanted to focus on a future
less bleak. To try and keep hope alive in my heart, even as it was suffocated
by anger and rage.

The
moment I found a situation where I could run, I would. No hesitation. No second
thoughts. I’d shoot and stab. I’d kill to escape, and the knowledge I was ready
to spill blood, shed a life, filled me with power.

Brax
may have died fighting to save me. Now, it was my turn. I’d find him somehow.
I’d find him and all of this would be nasty history.

A
sliver of light, then a scuff echoed around the black catacomb of our prison. I
froze beneath the musty sheets.

A
footstep, then another. 

My
hands clenched, ready to pummel. It wasn’t a woman tiptoeing through the night,
heading to the bucket in the corner. It was a jailor. I’d paid attention to
their mannerisms and noises. The last week taught me how to use all my senses.

I
knew with horrible clarity—Leather Jacket had come for me.

A
hand patted my thigh, creeping, trying to locate me in the darkness. I
stiffened, letting him grope his way, biding time.

When
a hand found my breast, I sucked in a breath.
Not yet. Wait.
I pretended
to be dead with terror, letting him think I wouldn’t fight.
Idiot.
My
mouth watered to make him bleed. Retribution was a fine thing.   

Leather
Jacket’s pungent breath wafted as he pressed one knee on the bed, moving to
straddle me.

I
burst upright.

My
punch flew wild but connected with a hard jaw. My other fist landed where I
wanted: right in his balls. Victory was righteous in my veins and I smiled.

He
squealed and rolled off, landing with a thud on the floorboards. Cries and
rustles erupted around the room. We’d never had an interloper in the night
before. Stupidly, we thought we were untouchable, our virtues kept for our new
masters, whoever they would be.

I
shot out of bed, kicking in the direction I thought Leather Jacket was. My foot
connected but not hard enough. Hot hands grabbed my ankle, twisting. I lost
balance and fell, landing in a heap half on top of him. My rib screamed, making
me woozy.

Horrible
groping trailed up my legs, reaching my hips, waist, and chest. I wriggled and
kicked. “Get off me!” I bit his ear as he managed to haul himself on top.

He
bellowed, and a flare of metallic rust filled my mouth. I’d drawn blood. It was
a flag to a bull.

I
went berserk. Everything I’d dealt with swarmed into cataclysmic rage. I
screamed and attacked. Nails, teeth, knees, and elbows. I didn’t care where I
struck, or where it landed. I became nothing but claws and fangs.

Leather
Jacket scooted away, leaving me fighting air.

“You
want to rape me, you bastard?” My voice wavered with tears and violence. “Come
and get me.”

Women
shouted encouragement as I charged into nothing. I found Leather Jacket
stumbling for the door. I caught him and grabbed greasy hair. With strength I
didn’t know I had, I slammed his nose against the wall.

He
screeched as something crunched. Adrenaline drenched my limbs, turning me into
a wet noodle, slippery, shaky, but I fought to stay strong.
Stay vicious
.

The
light bulb flared on, blinding.

Ignoring
the burn of my retinas, I grabbed Leather Jacket’s finger and twisted with all
my might. He struck out and punched me in the chest. My lungs collapsed; I
couldn’t grab a breath.

The
door wrenched open and a barrier of men marched in, pointing machine guns in my
face. Sucking in what air I could, I jumped back, holding up my hands. A
trickle of blood ran from my temple and bruises added to bruises, but
satisfaction was a welcome bloom when I looked at Leather Jacket.

Stringy
hair was all over the place, a cut oozed on his cheekbone, and he heaved as if
he’d been beaten by a gorilla. He snarled,
“Vete a la mierda, puta.”
He
nursed his finger and shoved aside a man with a gun, reaching for me.