Dunkirk • H.S

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I wrap a towel around my body, water droplets dripping down my arms and legs creating minor puddles on the floor. My hair is winded up in a towel and I can't help letting out a sigh. I actually feel clean, my skin feels clean, my hair feels and smells clean and a part of me is happy about that.

I look at my clothes on the floor. Is that guy going to give me new clothes? I want to say yes, but then I think of what they did to me, what they did to all of us, how they treated us. Why would they give me new clothes? That would be an act of kindness, and I don't think any of the men here have it in them to be kind enough.

I walk to the door, gripping my towel to my body, and open it. The man was there waiting like he said he would, leant against a concrete pillar with his arms crossed as he talks to another shooter beside him.

Only then, when I step out of the shower room and swipe my eyes over the place, do I see dozens of girls sitting at the tables, some standing and some sitting on the floor crying. My heart instantly drops, and I scan for my sister, but fail when a hand closes around my wrist and turns me around.

"They're all waiting for showers," green eyes look into mine. "Let's get you to your cell with some clothes." His eyes sweep over my towel-clad body suggestively as he tugs my arm to follow him. I turn my head around to look at all the girls, but I don't see my sister. She must be in a different building.

"Bring them to the west wing cells when you're done with shower duty." Styles says to the man he was talking to not only five minutes ago.

"I will," the shooter grunts. I turn my head back around when Styles leads me up some stairs, making my knees burn as I take every step cautiously. I let out a whimper when we reach the top and he turns to look at me.

"Does your throat still hurt?" He asks, not bothering to stop walking. I trail behind him, my feet sore and knees hurting like someone hit them with hammers.

"Not really," I let out, my voice loud enough for him to hear. He stops in front of a cell door and slides it open, moving out the way for me to walk in. And I do.

"There's clothes on the bed. Get dressed quickly." He turns around so he can't see me.

"What if som-"

"No one can see you, just get dressed." He says and I shut up. I look at the bed and there lies an orange uniform with matching shoes. It really does feel like we're all prisoners, and the fact that we have to wear matching uniforms only backs it up more.

I swallow my spit down and try my best to get dressed into the uniform quickly, but my muscles are still sore and my bones ache. I drop the towel covering my body. I want to pick it back up and cover myself. I don't like feeling so bare and vulnerable, especially in this situation.

I grab the black bra, which is just a sucky sports bra, and slip it on along with the shirt. It smells like plain washing detergent, it having almost no scent at all. I grab the pants, lifting each leg through the holes and tugging them up. They sag around my waist, but I ignore it. I take the towel out of my hair and run my fingers through it.

"I'm done." I clear my throat and he turns around, looking me up and down as I walk out of the cell. My head it starting to pound again but I don't want to say or ask for anything.

He walks up to me, a few inches left between us, and I suck in my breath. His eyes are focused on mine and I feel scared under his gaze.

I let out a gasp when he abruptly grabs the strings on my pants and pulls them tightly, making me jump slightly as he ties them. The proximity that we're in is making my head pound even more, and the fact that his fingers are still holding on to the strings is making me uncomfortable.