Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive) (21 page)

With each question comes a hit, a pinch, a punch, a kick. My body is just about to give out and then he stops. I crumble to the floor and lie there in a fetal position, every muscle aching. I feel him kick me and wetness fall on my cheek.

It’s not tears. I haven’t cried yet. I feel the pain; I do not feel anything else. My heart is stone. No

—I’m not crying. I realize with slight revulsion my father is spitting on me.

I am nothing. I feel nothing.

I close my eyes and wait for everything to be over. I’m not sure how long I’m out. I’m not even sure what’s happening. I feel someone pick me up and take me to the restroom where the cut on my cheek is cleaned. I cut in and out of consciousness but can’t for the life of me open my eyes. I don’t want to. I flinch against someone taking off my clothes—and notice new clothes being put on—I fight against the heaviness pushing against my eyelids and try to wake up, but I can’t. I feel myself falling into a deep darkness, and I can do nothing. I finally quit trying and let go, floating into complete oblivion.

***

I wake up in my dad’s shed. His friend is already there - waiting for me to open my eyes.

“Ah. Sleeping Beauty. Glad you decided to join us.”

Us. Plural. I look around and see four guys. All sitting around in anticipation. I only know one, the cop, and my heart sinks with realization when I understand this has just become something more than I ever imagined. This isn’t just a simple trafficking ring where cops are able to get their kicks and go home to their wives. No. I think of Valerie and the other pictures of girls I don’t even know. My head rings with the impact of what my dad is responsible for and a moan escapes my lips.

There’s no way out. I’m stuck here. Someone...please come and rescue me.

My hand instinctually moves down my side and I frown at the fabric.

What am I wearing?

I look down. Someone has changed my clothes. I’m wearing a pin-up costume, complete with high socks and...heels? My dress barely covers anything. The socks are thigh-highs and there is still about three inches in between them and my dress. Normally, I’m incredibly small chested. People have told me I look like a twelve year old boy rather than a teenage girl. Looking down, I’m surprised (and embarrassed) to see cleavage.

I feel like a two cent hooker.

I have no idea where the outfit came from, no idea who changed me, but I’m nauseated at the thought of these guys’ hands already on me while I had no idea of what was going on. They notice my uneasiness and one speaks up.

“Don’t worry. Your dad changed you before bringing you out to the shed.” He lifts a camera and smiles, “We did take pictures, though.” He walks over to me and caresses my leg, “With a body like that, you’re going to be famous. We all are. These pictures are headed to the internet, honey. They’re better than the ones already up. Here, let me show you.”

He leans over and starts weaving through the pictures stored on his camera. Pictures of me, knocked out and completely clad in this...outfit. If you didn’t know the circumstances, you would think I consented to all of these pictures—they had rearranged me in positions that make my stomach twist in knots. I notice it’s all about hand placement—fixing my hair to cover my face in what seems like a seductive dare. And I had no idea they were doing this. I look away and feel my breath start to come out in gasps. He turns and laughs.

“These pictures excite you?! Oh boy. They excite me, too.” He touches himself, his eyes trailing down my body. I shiver.

“Oh...you’re cold?” He turns and looks at the other three guys and nods. “I think our girl needs to warm up a bit, don’t you think?”

They cheer with perverted anxiousness. I cower from his touch and lift my chin.

“Get the fuck away from me.” My voice is hoarse. My throat hurts and my body is sore when I move.

The guy straightens his back and his face darkens. A small, sinister smile snakes across his face.

“Ah. We got ourselves a feisty one, gentlemen. I think I kinda liked you better when you was knocked out. Less fight.” His hands move to his belt and he unbuckles it slowly, raising his eyebrow. I watch his hands, they’re shaking with desire. I turn my head toward the wall and refuse to look at him.

“Oh no you don’t, pretty little thing. Eyes over here. You get to watch the show. Boys, don’t forget to keep those cameras rolling. Men will pay good money to watch what I’m about to do to this delicious piece of heaven.”

I ignore him, which seems to get him even more riled up. Grabbing my arms, he pulls me to my feet and presses me against him. I feel his heat and try not to gag. The men behind him start whistling and snapping pictures with their own cameras and something starts building in my chest.

Indignation. Fight. Contempt.
Hate.

I breathe deep and close my eyes, waiting for everything to reach a boiling point. I feel my face on fire and my own hands start to shake. When I open my eyes, a small tear falls and I shake my arms free from his grasp and push him as hard as I can.

“I said
get the fuck away from me.”
Stunned, he crashes against one of the chairs. His buddies try to catch him but are unsuccessful. All eyes are one me.

It seems I’ve wakened a monster. He springs up from the ground and leaps towards me, his hands instantly gripping my cheek. I taste the blood from the inside skin of my mouth being pushed against my teeth.

“Just who do you think you are? I paid good money for you, bitch. I traveled two hours because I saw pictures of your young, tight body and I wanted to have me some fun. And now you’re going to try and take it away from me?”

He throws me on the bed and drops his pants. I’ve been here before, but every time the pain and disgust take my breath away. The tears fall heavy and fast and I can’t stop. Apparently the men don’t care.

The crying makes them more excited. My pleas seem to them cries of pleasure. The cameras keep rolling and I can’t help but think of those who will watch this—thinking nothing about whether or not I wanted this to happen. Whether or not I even had a choice. As if I
wanted
four men to have sex with me.

“No! Please. Stop. No!”

“That’s right, precious. That’s right. You like this, don’t you?”

The voice is loud in my ear and I turn my head violently to keep the breath from rolling down my neck. My hands are tied behind me to a post above the mattress. The only reprieve I get from being tied down is when they get bored and move me to a different position, untying my hands to get me in a different spot. My wrists are raw; my eyes swollen; my hips tender from their weight.

I don’t stop crying for the next two hours, but that doesn’t stop them. They keep coming. All four, multiple times. There isn’t an inch of my body that hasn’t felt the touch of these monsters, and when the last one shuts the door and I’m left alone, my body sags in relief.

“We got us some good footage, men. Sam will be excited to put these up on the site.”

I can’t take it anymore. The pain—the grief—it’s just all too much. I sink into the mattress and close my eyes.

For now, it’s over. For now. Close your eyes. Get some rest. Don’t think about them. Don’t think
about the pain. Just...sleep.

I keep crying, though. I cry through the entire night—sobs wracking my body—tears continuing to wet the sheets tainted with the scent of men who are now at home, sleeping with their wives. Sorrow doesn’t even begin to describe what I feel as a fresh wave of tears flow through me and I claw at my eyes to stop the pain.

As the sunlight starts peeking through the one window, I finally fall asleep—exhausted in my own anguish. I pull the covers around me in a protective measure, as if covering myself will erase what the men did. Where they touched and how I’m still shaking from the force they used. I know I have bruises on my legs because every time I move I feel pain shoot up from my calves to my upper thighs. I can’t even kick off the heels I’m so tired.

I close my eyes and dream of Pacey and sunrises and moments where I feel alive because right now, I feel nothing but death.

Chapter Nineteen

This is how Kevin finds me: in a fetal position, shaking against the cold, whimpering in my sleep.

I don’t even hear him open the shed door. He runs over to the mattress and curses. Touching my arm, he whispers my name.

“Stephanie? Stephanie?
Ohmigod.
Please...wake up.”

I open my eyes slowly and moan. Realizing Kevin is sitting next to me, my eyes go wild and I reach for more covers. I can’t let him see me like this. My heart leaps in my chest; my face turns crimson.

I’m hardly clothed. I’m bruised.

Oh no—dad. He can’t see Kevin here. He can’t. He’d....kill him.

“Kevin.” My voice cracks. “What are you doing here?! Are you trying to get killed?! If my dad sees you...”

“He’s gone. I checked. His truck isn’t in the driveway.” Kevin rolls back on his heels and shakes his head. “Stephanie...”

“You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here? How did you find me?”

He looks at me and says quietly. “You stood me up for the second time. I sat there, on the bleachers, waiting for you. Once you hadn’t shown by the time the sun hit the horizon, I was on my way over. I knew something happened. You don’t ever miss the sunrise.” He kisses my shoulder and I sigh.

He just kissed my shoulder. My bare shoulder.
I glance down and notice - for the umpteenth time -

my lack of clothing and wrinkle my face in disgust.
I look like a whore.
I cover my head with my hands and try to fight the thoughts swirling in my head.

“Stephanie - why are you wearing...” he can’t find the words. Doesn’t surprise me. The elastic of the thigh high socks cuts into my skin and I move my hand and stick my finger between my skin and the fabric, allowing my circulation a chance to flow freely. Slowly he backs away and finds himself sitting on a chair, his chin resting in his hands—his eyes fixed on mine.

My hands move from under the covers and I rub my fingers under my eyes to gather all of the day-old mascara.

He notices the bruises on my arm and shakes his head.

“Fuck. You look horrible. You need to see a doctor. There are...bruises everywhere.” His eyes focus in on my face, “And I’m pretty sure your nose is broken.”

I hadn’t even thought of my nose since last night. I lift my hand to touch it and moan. Too much movement. Rolling myself in the fetal position again, I close my eyes against the sun and start to cry. I’m useless. Spent. Normally, I can take the thoughts captive and remember moments I’ve felt alive - remind myself there are people who still want me. After last night - after what the men did - I know I’m nothing more than secondhand goods.

“I can’t do this anymore, Kevin. I can’t. I have nothing left to give. I sat there last night and watched my dad beat my mom to a pulp and did nothing. I didn’t even fight until I was faced with four men staring at me like I’m a piece of meat. Who stands there and does nothing? Horrible people. I’m a horrible, miserable person.”

He walks over to the mattress and sits next to me. “You are not horrible.” Looking me over, his face forms a sense of resolve. “I’m taking you to Emma’s.”

I cry out against the idea. “Please...no. I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“Stephanie, I’m sorry. You don’t have a choice.” He places his hand gently on my cheek and leans in closely, “Listen. I love you. Do you hear that? I love you. And you don’t let the people you love go through what you are going through. You just don’t. I’m taking you to Emma’s. If for nothing else than to get Jude involved. It’s time.”

I can’t even comprehend what he just said because my heart refuses to believe it. He can’t love me. Can’t. I’m a fucking whore for crying out loud—my body isn’t even my own anymore. And then I remember—my brother.

“Pacey,” I whisper.

Kevin stops and looks at me. “What about Pacey?”

I open my eyes enough to find his gaze. “They took him yesterday. I don’t know where he is. I broke a promise, Kevin. I told him I’d always be there and now I’m not and I don’t know where he is...”

my voice breaks and I start weeping. Again. I thought by now the tears would have dried up. My head throbs from the night spent crying and begging for release.

Kevin sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “Okay. We’ll get Emma to make some phone calls.” He leans over and slides his arms underneath me. I try not to cry out in pain but it’s too hard. He stops and narrows his eyes.

“I swear. If I ever run into any of the bastards who did this to you...” his voice fades and I notice his eyes focused on something in the far corner of the room. Freeing his arms, he walks over and stands by the window for a few seconds—frozen.

“Kevin?”

He turns; I notice tears running down his face. My heart jumps to my throat.

“Kevin - Kevin, what’s wrong? What is it? No - no you don’t want to see those pictures. Please.”

He walks slowly back over to the mattress with what look like more pictures. He hands them over to me and I look with disbelief at the handful of photographs taken on this very bed. Photos of me. Photos from when I was knocked out.

How’d they print them out so quickly?

Kevin clears his throat and wipes his eyes. He looks tired. Haggard. As if these past ten minutes have exhausted him. “There was a sticky on the pile.”

I look up at him, waiting for him to finish. I can hear his breath come out in short, hurried gasps.

“What did it say?”

“Upload to Daddy’s Little Girls.”

My vision goes blurry. I see multiple of Kevin and know I’m seconds from passing out.
He has a
website. The men weren’t messing with me. He has a fucking website with my picture to lure guys....
I can’t even finish my thought for fear of either passing out or throwing up. I hand the pictures back to Kevin and manage to squeak out a response.

“Can you uh...put these somewhere? We need them. Put them in your pocket or something.”