Cauchemar Camp

Chapter 3

Turns out, I have a lot more left to do before dying, a blessing and a curse depending on how you look at it.

At least, that's what the man said after I sat down next to him on one of the benches. "Never been so glad to be a slave before." were his exact words. If this makes him happy, what's the alternative? Death can't be worse than this, and he certainly doesn't think so, not with the cross inked on his hand. I don't ask, he doesn't offer, just continues racing out whispers in a language so familiar I can almost understand. Italian, definitely Italian. I can't make out all the words, but angelo and dio are said too many times for him not to be imagining himself in a church.

The fact that he doesn't have a white hair on his head, only some wrinkles on his forehead and yet he's clearly the oldest one here isn't mentioned, but I'm sure he's noticed too.

I think of going somewhere else, the squared benches on the wall may not be empty but they also aren't full. This seat, though, it gives me the perfect view of the door I came in through, the only one in here. I wonder who came up with this room, with this whole building's floor plan. Heaven forbid there's a fire, or a flood, or anything that would require us to leave quickly.

Like a mass escape.

I watch it -the door, ignoring the guard. If you can even call him that, he stunk of booze as I walked past him and has a beer belly that spills out of his too tight pants, the only thing that gives him a centimetre of authority is the riffle in his hands. He squints at me the whole time.

Is he drunk or just staring really hard?

I don't look away, not even when he adjusts the gun in his hand. I just stare and count, trying to figure out how many gears have turned, how far the treadmill has moved, how many girls have gone through. If any of them have finished being groped at all.

My eyes only leave the entrance when I see her walk through the door. She comes in slowly, head still down. I keep mine down too, walking to the the middle of the room, grabbing her arm and pulling her to the benches, pulling her down next to me. Head always down, eyes always on the floor. There's a noise, soft and low, but her arms come around me, giving me a side hug that shouldn't be that tight for someone who is shaking so hard, but it is. And for once, I'm glad. So glad I don't stop her from burying her head in my shoulder.

"I kept my head down, tried hearing your answers but I couldn't. Guess I got it right, huh?" It's the first time she's spoken to me. Even through the fabric of my shirt, her voice is too high, too squeaky, too fragile.

Too different from Mia's.

My heart squeezes again, in disappointment or relief I'm not quite sure.

"I knew you would." I absolutely did not.

A girl comes in, the wet streaks on her cheeks shinning with the light of the single lightbulb that hangs from the ceiling. I don't keep counting.

The concrete becomes more interesting than any work I saw at The Louvre, even The Mona Lisa.

Through all the footsteps, the tightening of arms that make me feel like I'm stuck in the tunnel again, the moisture accumulating on my shoulder, the thighs pressing into mine as the man moves closer, everything stays the same. The floor doesn't move, doesn't dent doesn't even flinch with the pounding it takes as more and more people pile in. Not even when the first one sits on it, or the second, or the third. I don't keep counting.

The ceiling becomes a better scenery, even with the yellow light it gives off and it's black stains. It doesn't have any rats running for cover, their homes being taken over. Doesn't have any vomit that's been there longer than I have, the smell almost gone at this point, doesn't have a single bench.

It does, however, get a bullet.

The hole left is the only reminder of that, there's no paint to crumble or glass to shatter. Everything stays the same. Even when the first man gives a shout, not even a word, just a sound, even with the tightening of arms, even with the thighs that move away from me, then go away completely. Even with the cries of hands being stepped on and heads being kicked. Even with the sounds, quick and quiet, that might not be apologies, but I choose to believe are.

Even with the art teacher that comes, makes a noise more animal than human and the hand that slides into mine as I stand up, the ceiling doesn't change one bit.

"Phones, keys, wallets, rings, anything you have." She says, not quite in the middle of the room but not at the door either.

My free hand reaches for my phone immediately, I don't say anything as I drop it into the black bin. There's a ring in there, matches the cross perfectly, even if they look nothing alike. It could be worse.

I stare at her hand, fingers too white to be getting any blood. It's easier than looking at the people I step on trying to get out, or the beer belly that doesn't bother to move out of the way, maybe even liking how close he is.

My fingers are too white too.

I guess we're both equals in our fear.