Monica O'Rourke: Suffer the Flesh

The harsh fluorescent lights aggravated her eyes, and every time she shifted, her body was reacquainted with pain. A full bladder caused even more discomfort, and she was afraid to relieve herself. Afraid of the pan, afraid of the noise she would make.

“I need to use the toilet,” she said, shifting, looking up at James.

“Oh.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “Can you do it quietly? You won’t be able to flush or anything.”

“I know. The problem is, they did some serious damage to me. I don’t know what’ll happen when I start to pee.”

He chewed his lip. “What did they do to you?”

“They shoved dildos inside me and then beat me with a strap. Right before and after that fat fuck raped me.”

He lowered his head, which surprised her. “Zoey, I’m sorry, I really am. It got out of hand, and…”

“Save it, James. You’re sorry? You’re a fucking hypocrite. You’ve been doing this shit to me for over a month.”

Raising her voice hadn’t been a good idea. Still, no movement at the door. At least it didn’t seem like she had been too loud.

“But it’s always controlled. We always stopped before we went too far.”

“I’ve been fucked by a dog , James. And one of those sick assholes pissed on me. All part of the fun and games? You told us all to do exactly what they said. So don’t try to justify your psychotic actions, James. You’re no better than they are. You’re just not running the show any more. You got exactly what you deserve.”

Now she wondered if she’d gone too far, said too much. Would he call the men, turn her in?

“I don’t know what to say, Zoey. I really am sorry. Anything I’ve done was for control, order. No one was ever harmed who didn’t deserve it.”

“So if this ended right now, if you were to regain control, would you shut down this facility?”

No response.

The room spun as she struggled to her feet, using the wall for support as she clawed her way up. “I need to try to use the toilet.” Every white-hot step seared her internally. Her heart throbbed, and her mouth was dry.

“Need help, Zoey?”

“No.” She hobbled to the stalls. At least there were stalls, even though there were no doors. What little privacy they offered was hardly much comfort.

She lifted her shirt and sat on the toilet. At first it refused to come, anxiety freezing her bladder, and she forced herself to relax. The first drops almost made her scream. Torment again, red-hot pokers. Open wounds sizzled and pulsed, and she waited an eternity for her bladder to empty. The toilet paper she used was soaked with blood. She wadded up more and pushed it inside her like a tampon, trying to dry it. She pulled it out, and it was also soaked. Several applications later, she had it under control.

Supporting herself against the wall, she stood, nearly flushed out of habit. The water was sanguineous, mottled with blood clots. The exertion stole her breath, drained her small reserve of energy as she made her way outside the stall.

Voices outside the bathroom. Her head jerked from side to side, as if she had a decision to make, as if she had any options at all. The stall was all she had, and she moved back inside and straddled the toilet, moved as far back as she could. Trying to get back to the linen closet wasn’t an option.

The lock was thrown, the bathroom door slammed open. “Let’s go, asshole.” The voice drifted toward the showers, along with footsteps belonging to more than one person.

“Where?” James asked.

“Just get the fuck up. Zack wants you to join the party.”

A soft thud, a grunt from James.

“Move!”

She heard them scuffling, and then their footsteps were heading back toward her direction.

Pressed up against the wall, she tried to melt into the plaster and paint. Squeezed her eyes but not completely shut, wanted to see them if they approached her.

The small procession stopped at the door, and she was sure they would find her, that maybe they could hear her raspy breath, could smell the fresh, bloody piss that stank like copper and rotten fish.

Instead, they left.

After several minutes—the longest minutes of her life—she peered outside the stall. The bathroom door was ajar.

She slumped against the wall.

Now what?

The same dilemma that had brought her to the bathroom to begin with returned.

No place to hide. There was another level to the torture chamber, that shrink’s office. She recalled walking up a short flight of stairs, had thought before reaching his office that it had been the way out. Although she hadn’t seen an exit. But still…

She stood behind the bathroom door and listened. Voices, but not close. Down the hall, around Room Four, a few doors away. Someone yelled, a man’s voice, and someone else sobbed. Slapping sounds. A woman screamed. Rushed footsteps, and the corridor was silent. A door slammed.

It took every ounce of reserve for her to leave the relative safety of the bathroom.

Once in the hall, her head jerked back and forth. The stairwell door was at the end of the corridor, near the cells.

She sucked a great breath of air and started to move, trying to ignore the stabbing pain. The rooms seemed to creep by. A few doors were open, but they were dark. She knew them well, knew the layout of each one but couldn’t see inside. Room Six, the Dungeon. BDSM. Whips and cuffs, stocks, racks.

Several feet away a door opened, and three visitors poured into the hall. They were distracted, dragging women out behind them.

Zoey ducked into Room Six, her breath abruptly ripped from her lungs. In the blackness it was impossible to make anything out.

Light filtered in through the open door, but her eyes hadn’t yet adjusted.

Somebody moaned. Zoey tried to swallow. No spit. Her throat was parched and raw.

Further in, her eyes focused.

Several women were in the room with her. Tamara, who had been here less than a week was strapped to the rack, a large solid wooden platform. Her contorted limbs were stretched to impossible lengths. Kim was hanging upside down against the wall, her ankles in wrist chains. Jessica was hung on rings suspended from the ceiling.

“What the fuck…?” she muttered. She knew the men were demented, but this—

She dry-heaved into her palm. Tears blurred what little vision she had.

“Help…” Tamara groaned.

“Zoey?” Jessica cried. “Oh god, Zoey…”

“Where are they?” Zoey asked.

Kim was silent, and she wondered with alarm whether she was still alive.

“Help me…” Tamara moaned, her voice a paroxysm of pain.

Zoey returned to the door and listened. The corridor was quiet.

Tamara first. She released the crank, loosening the stranglehold on the women’s limbs. Tamara sobbed, thrashed her head on the wooden base.

“Stay still, you have to stop that,” she whispered.

Tamara’s cheek was hot beneath her touch. “Is anything broken? Dislocated?”

“Don’t… know… yet…” she moaned, lowering her spastic arms to her side.

Zoey unfastened the clamps next, released Jessica, who slumped to the floor.

Kim was unconscious. Her head dusted the floor, and Zoey lifted it. “Kim? Kim, wake up.” She checked for a pulse and found one.

Jessica knelt beside them.

“How long has she been hanging here?”

“At least an hour,” Jessica said, rubbing the circulation back into her arms. “They raped her and then hung her there.”

“Unfasten her ankles. I’ll catch her.”

Jessica tried to reach up. “My arms, Zoey. No strength in them. I’m sorry.”

“Take it easy, Jess, it’s okay. Relax for a minute.” Zoey lifted Kim’s upper body, supported it on her shoulder. She reached up and unfastened the clamps, releasing one foot at a time. Kim’s legs came crashing down, but Zoey held her tight, lowered her to the floor.