The Devil's Playthings

The Girl

Emma could barely
see t
he vein in her arm as she tried
to push the needle in
again
. She already took one hit in each arm, but it wasn't enough to dull the pain in her head. She pushed her matted blonde hair out of her eyes, and tried again. She fel
t sleepy,
and her hands felt like lead, but she didn't get enough to make her forget, so she tried again.

She couldn't count how many men she'd
had sex with over the past month, no wait year, to get money for drugs. She didn't care about selli
ng her body
anymore;
she just wanted everything to go away. Every night she sold her body on the street, and every morning she scored harder and harder drugs. She hadn't seen a mirror or a shower in weeks, and she couldn't believe men still wanted to pay to have sex with her. She viewed them with more disgust than she did herself, as they were
obviously
more desperate.

Every time she took a hit, she dared God to take her life. She wanted
to die, she wanted to disappear.
S
he wanted to never remember her horrible existence.
S
he couldn't help but remember she was 14 when she first had sex; it was when her grandmother died, and her grandfather finally had his way with her.

Her eyes opened from dreams of her grandfather tying her down to her bed and brutally raping her, awakening to the sounds of her own screams. Her
parents
died in a car accident when she was three, and her grandparents took her in. Remembering it now, she could see how her grandfather had lurked in the background, watching her blossom.

He made the comment of how she could finally start having sex
when she first had her period;
at 11
she didn’t even know what sex was
. He would touch her hair or rub her shoul
ders, and she knew it wasn’t right
. He never did any of this in front of her grandmother.

The night of her grandmother's funeral he raped her the first time. He cried shamelessly, telling her the trauma of his wife's loss made him crazy. But he did it more and more, and when she threatened to tell a teacher, he told her he would kill her like he did his wife.

After her third abo
rtion, which he forced her to
have
, she was told she would never have a baby. She was 17. That was when she ran away. She took most of her clothes with her, which wasn't much at all anyway, but over the years she'd lost
most of what she had
.

She wore the same thing every day, a short yellow skirt and a tight white tank top. At any other time the ou
tfit would look cheery, but the clothes
were dirty and stained, and winter was coming
swiftly
to New York City.

The only clothing she had
left other than what she wore she
carried in an old messenger's bag over her shoulder. She had a pair of jeans that were ragged, and a sweater that looked moth eaten.

She never wore underwear anymore; they were only in the way. And her small breasts didn't need a bra. At 20 she looked 14, and she could only assume that was why men wanted her.

She
stayed warm in stranger
’
s cars and the occasional hotel room while giving blowjobs or hand
jobs, or whatever else they wanted. And when she slept outside she was usually so high she couldn't feel the cool autumn nights.

This night
,
she decided
,
woul
d be her last. She still searched
for the vein to put in one last hit, finally finding it through the tears. She felt it like a wave whooshing through her blood toward her brain, knowing that this ti
me could be the last
. She laughed and s
creamed out, "why don't you take
me now and take me away from all this
!"

Her eyes closed and she heard the rush of blood in her ears, drowning out the sound of traffic nearby, and after a few moments the rush sounded like a howling. She tried to tell her brain to open her eyes, but she didn't know how, so she laughed harder.

She thought she saw herself, thin arms and legs spread out like a rag doll, long hair matted into locks, tears falling down
bloodless
cheeks with a spattering of freckles. And then she saw something else, like a
large
black
wolf
, stalking around her. Perhaps, she told herself, she was finally dead and the animals were coming to eat her flesh.

She laughed hysterically now, thinking of her skinny limbs being dinner for the ravenous creature, how it would only chew on her bones.

"Emma!" she heard from somewhere, and her eyes opened in slits as she saw a man standing in front of her.

"D
o you want something
?" she slurred
as she tried to move her hands to pull up her skirt, but they weighed far to
o
much, like her eyelids.

"Emma!" the voice said again. She couldn't tell if it was a yell or a whisper. She thought maybe she was hearing St. Peter calling to her from the pearly gates. Or maybe
the devil was calling to her from hell
. She tried to open her eyes, but couldn't. All she could see was black.

She had the most amazing sensation of flying.
She even thought she heard wings flapping, but she was sure it was the sound of the blood pounding through her veins.

She imagined she was held by huge arms against a muscular chest, cherished and protected. She finally relaxed, for the first time in years. She felt safe for the first time since she was a child. She
thought
he might put her down, and she refused to allow it. She wrapped her arms around his neck, which seemed to be as big as a tree
trunk
, and held on for dear life.

“Please don’t let me go,” she whispered.

“I’ll never let you go,” the voice whispered. Or growled. She wasn’t sure.

The skin under her hands felt rough, like cracked leather, but warm like an electric blanket. She curled closer into his body. He could only be male
, she thought, as her head lay on pecs that felt chiseled from marble.

She felt a slight jarring, as if they were in an elevator and it finally hit ground floor. The skin against her cheek changed; it felt as soft as satin.
Her hand moved from his neck down over his shoulder. The skin seemed to change under her fingertips. He also seemed smaller, but the muscles were still rock hard.

He held her closer still, both arms going around her. She knew she should be freezing, but she felt so warm in his arms. She felt her thigh against his, and she could tell he was completely nude. How could he be that warm, she wondered?

But she didn’t care. She wanted this feeling; had been waiting for it. She felt like she was finally home.

She fought to open her eyes, to see who held her so lovingly. His hand moved to her hair, and she was suddenly ashamed
of her neglect of her appearance
. But it felt like the more he touched her hair, the softer it became.

Open your eyes, she told herself.

“You’re safe with me,” he whispered and touched her cheek as her eyelids began to flutter.

Open your eyes, her brain insisted.

“Stay asleep,” his voice countered her thoughts.

Her hand moved up from his shoulder, over his throat, and up his face.
His cheekbones were incredibly high
.
H
is lips were much too soft. She felt him stand and take several steps in long quick strides. Where was he going naked?

She heard a door open, and then he walked down a flight of stairs, and another. He walked so silently it was eerie.

Open your eyes, her brain demanded.

She
heard another door open, then close just as quietly. She
felt him deftly remove her clothes. Then she felt
something as soft as a whisper fall over her shoulders and down her body. Was she standing? She had no idea.

She felt him lay her on a bed. She felt silky cool sheets against her body, and she protested.

“No,” she sighed. She didn’t want cool sheets, she wanted his warm skin.

Then she felt him lay beside her. Greedily she pulled him into her body, holding him as
tight as her drug induced weakness
would allow. He groaned, or growled, and held her tighter still.

She wanted to see the man who held her so close. She could feel every beautiful muscle against her. She could smell musk and wood and rain. He was perfection, she was sure.

“Please,” she implored, and her eyelids fluttered again.

She opened her eyes to find him staring back at her.
She laughed softly, because the drugs ma
de his eyes appear red. Bright r
ed eyes stared back at her, judging her response.

She smiled; a smile of innocence from a g
irl who was far from innocent. It was the drugs, she told herself. No one has eyes as red as a rose, as red as sunset, as red as blood.

His skin was tan; no peach, she thought. His hair was black as night and lay in soft waves around his face. And his face; she shivered. He looked sweet and gentle. He looked tender and caring.

And he felt as soft as a flower
, as soft as a kitten. He felt as soft as silk and as warm as a spring day.

She held him tighter. She wanted to touch and feel every inch of him against her. She wanted his warmth to radiate into her.

If it was the drugs, she would definitely go back to the man who sold them to her. They were the best so far. They made her believe she was lying against an angel.

“Sleep now, sweetheart,” he whispered.

“I don’t want to sleep,” she complained. “I feel like I’ve been asleep my whole life. I’m finally awake.”

“Rest, and in the morning you will see me again,” he promised, and placed a soothing kiss on her cheek. She felt more tired than she’d ever felt in her life. She felt sleepier than any drug had ever made her.

“No,” she protested. But she could not stay awake. When she closed her eyes, she saw in her mind a pair of bright red eyes. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

She thought she smelled coffee and eggs. Maybe she fell asleep in an alley behind a restaurant again. She opened her eyes, and
for a moment she thought she was dead.

But she
couldn’t be dead, she told
herself, because this had to be
heaven. She lay
in a
real
bed, a bed made for a fairy tale princess.
She was cocooned in white silk sheets,
and a white silk down comforter
.
The pillows behi
nd her head were soft and white. Her head
practically sunk into them.
The bed had a white canopy covered in white velvet
and edged in gold embroidery.