I give up the jumping from the window idea, and decide on searching for another means of escape. The room is markedly bare, though. There’s a double bed, freshly made by the looks of things. A dresser against the far wall, though when I open the drawers, they’re all empty. A sink complete with dripping tap stands in the corner—the kind the Victorians used to put in every bedroom back before the introduction of the en-suite bathroom. My heart leaps in my chest when I see the mirror mounted on the wall above it. I could smash it and use one of the shards as a weapon. But I’m not even halfway across the room when I realize the mirror isn’t actually a mirror at all. Instead, it’s a highly polished piece of metal, screwed tightly into the wall. I try to prize the screws out, but I only succeed in making my fingers bleed. The nails don’t budge an inch.
A weak desperation sets in after that. I stalk the perimeter of the room, eyes scanning for something I may have missed. Something, anything, I can use to get the hell out of here. There isn’t anything. Once that really hits home, I curl myself into a ball in the corner of the room and I cry. I cry so hard I make myself sick, my stomach muscles trembling from the second round of purging. I’m rinsing out my mouth, my legs trembling underneath me like two frail stalks of corn, when the door opens and Ramona walks in. She doesn’t seem impressed that I’m not decked out in the yellow dress yet.
“Fuck’s sake,” she hisses. I move away from her so that my back’s pressed up against the wall, but she doesn’t seem to care. This whole thing feels a little rote on her part. With quick, rough hands, she takes hold of my soiled T-shirt and forcefully removes it from my body. I’m too stunned to struggle. She unbuttons my jeans next, and drags them down. My legs get a good hard slap when I refuse to lift my feet at first. I relent after the third strike, miserably raising them one at a time so she can bully my dirty, wadded-up jeans free from my body.
She leaves me in my underwear while she fills the sink with water. I’m made to remove those too when she’s done, though—if you don’t do it, I will. I cover my breasts with my hands, awkwardly trying to make myself smaller as Ramona uses a clean, white face cloth to scrub at my body. The water’s warm, but it might as well be freezing cold. Every time she touches me, I nearly jump out of my skin. My humiliation is complete when she thrusts the cloth between my legs, forcing my hand out of the way.
“You want to make him unhappy?” she snaps. Him being Raphael, no doubt. I do not want to make him unhappy—the bastard is unhinged—but I don’t particularly like the way my lady parts are being prepped for some unknown event, either. Ramona tuts as she plucks with her fingers at my pubic hair. I’m not a particularly hairy person, but she seems revolted by what I’ve got going on downstairs.
“This needs to go,” she informs me. “You look like a fucking virgin with that fuzz going on.”
I’m hit with a sudden memory—the mystery biker’s words to me as he gripped hold of my wrist. Tell them you’re a virgin. Whatever happens, make sure Hector knows that. Even the firm look he gave me as he walked away was reaffirming what he’d said to me. I haven’t even considered what it might mean for my situation right now, but he seemed so insistent. And he hated Raphael; I could see that in his eyes, too. I open my mouth and tell Ramona what he told me to say, choking on the words. “I am a virgin.”
Ramona rockets to her feet, taking a step back. “What?” She looks like I’ve just slapped her.
I contort my arms around my body again, trying and failing to cover too many parts of myself. “I’m a virgin. I’ve never been with anyone before,” I say in a small voice. This is a flagrant lie. I lost my virginity when I was eighteen to the first guy I ever loved, Joshua. We’d been dating for two years through the final years of high school. We’d finally committed ourselves to each other the week before he left for college in Oklahoma. We’d known it was over but we still loved each other. It was a final, gentle moment, one last gift that was shared between us before we said goodbye. Since then I’ve only had one sexual partner, Matt, but we’ve hardly been shy about what we’ve wanted from each other.
Ramona casts a doubtful eye over me. She doesn’t believe me. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Ain’t no white college girls virgins at twenty-one,” she tells me, as though she’s an authority on the matter.
“My family’s religious. I’m religious. No sex before marriage.” My cheeks burn like charred ember when I go to Church these days—there’s never been a woman so wanton sitting in the pews of St. Augustus Catholic Church. When I’m feeling particular penitent, I’ll go to confession and take my Hail Marys on the chin, along with the partially visible scandal that marks Father Richmond’s face.
Ramona stares at me some more. I’m probably blushing—I’ve never been manhandled like a piece of meat before. Hopefully the woman’s taking my rosy glow as embarrassment over my confession to her. “You never been touched by a boy? Ever?” she asks.
I shake my head.
Ramona tosses the face cloth back into the sink with a wet splash, tutting under her breath. “Put the dress on anyway. I’ll be back in a moment.” She leaves me, naked and shivering, wondering if I’ve done the right thing or if I’ve just made things infinitely worse for myself. I have no clean underwear, so I climb into the pale yellow dress without any. The thing is a frou-frou monstrosity, all ruffles and pleats. There’s even a satin bow that ties just under the bust line. I tie it, all the while wondering if the strand of ribbon is long enough to hang myself with if it comes down to it. I wasn’t joking back in the van; I would rather die than be violated by a bunch of strange men.
Twenty minutes pass. I sit on the edge of the bed, counting my heartbeats. It’s strange that the treacherous organ in my ribcage insists on skipping along so steadily, when it seems as though the intensity of my fear should have stopped it dead by now. I hear voices after a while—loud ones—and then the thunder of boot steps out in the corridor. The door rattles as the key is fumbled, inserted, twisted, opened, and then Hector, Raphael and Ramona storm one by one into the room. Raphael’s face is twisted into a rictus of rage. Hector simply looks like he’s being inconvenienced.
“Lie back on the bed,” he says.
I lock my ankles together, my arms clamped firmly around my body. “No.”
Hector laughs, looking at Raphael. “You always bring the spirited ones back, huh?”
“She’s not a fucking virgin, Hector. No way. She’s lying.”
“And why would she do that?” he asks softly. “I’m presuming you didn’t tell her of our business here?”
The creases in Raphael’s face deepen. “No,” he admits.
“Then the girl is probably a virgin.” He turns back to me, walks over to the bed, and places a hand on top of my head. I cower from his touch, which seems to displease him. He grabs hold of my chin in one hand, lifting my face so I’m looking up at him. “Lie back on the bed, sweet girl, or I’m going to make you. And I don’t want to have to do that, because I don’t want to hurt you, you see. Do as you’re told and I’ll be quick. I promise.”
My tears return, blurring out the world. Maybe that’s a good thing. I don’t want to see their faces as I slowly lie back down onto the bed. Hector throws back the skirts of the yellow dress, and I bite back a cry of shame. His hands are cold. They push my legs apart, and then his strong, thick fingers are investigating, parting the folds of my flesh, demanding entry.