As the door opened, he a made a rolling sweep of his arm. “My lab.”
Did I expect dripping walls clad with chains and whips, a bedlam of unidentifiable body parts, beakers overflowing with sultry gases, and a skull fringed throne overlooking the savage activities? Yes, I did.
My imagination was amended with fluorescent bulbs swagging from the ceiling, biohazard bins and equipment beeping and blinking on immaculate workbenches.
A microscope slide skidded across the first desk as he passed. “Your survival is…perplexing, yet your blood is ordinary. Now it is time to further our research.”
I kept my head down, pretended disinterest.
“In the name of Allah, behold Sura 2:223. ‘Your women are the bearers of your seed. Thus, you may enjoy this privilege however you like, so long as you maintain righteousness.’” His tone hardened. “Like a field to cultivate, you will harvest children.”
My head shot up. “Oh, and you’ll be the sperm donor? Too bad you can’t get it up.”
He backhanded me. I stumbled, my tied hands hindering my balance. My tongue sloshed in a mouth of blood. I leaned over, let it rope to the concrete. The ache to start swinging was as compulsory as it was pointless.
Dirty fingers invaded my mouth, jamming into the open gash inside my cheek. Fuck, that hurt.
He yanked out his hand, smacked my face. “You’ll remember your place.”
“There’s a hiccup in your plan.” I spat more blood and braced for another punch. “I’m not fertile.”
His fist slid across my jaw. I spun into a desk. Pain shot through my teeth. In the years I spent learning how to throw knives and tactically clear rooms, maybe I should have invested some time on stratagem and diversion. How the fuck would I talk myself out of there?
“Lying to me will not help your petition. Dr. Nealy confirmed your ovulation and fertility from your vaginal exam.”
My whole body tensed. The doctor could’ve examined me any number of times he sedated me. And he would’ve discovered my IUD. I knew he hadn’t removed it. The string that extended from my cervix was still there. I checked for it regularly to make sure the thing hadn’t moved. Either the Drone was lying to me or the doctor was lying to the Drone.
The muffled squall of a baby diffused the room. I turned toward the maw looming at the end of the lab. Another winding stairway. Another basement. Whimpers crept from within.
Sweat formed on my nape. I twisted my hands in the binds at my back.
He gathered his long ringlets of hair into a surgeon cap and slipped on latex gloves, both at odds with the sable cape draping his shoulders. Then he clutched my bicep and hauled me into the black hole. His accent rolled in the dark. “It is time.”
I thought I understood fear.
I thought I understood fear when my hands were bound in my father’s basement. When my legs were forced open by the man I considered a father.
I thought I understood fear when my dagger tore through my chest. When my breast flopped away from my muscle.
I thought I understood fear when my protector, my lover was chained to a wall and fed to an army of aphids. When only a foot separated us and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it.
But I never had to wait for fear. It always sneaked up and took me by surprise.
It wasn’t until the Drone pushed me through the door at the bottom of those stairs that I truly understood.
This time, I would see it coming.
I would have time to think about it, to dread it.
This time, fear was waiting.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here!
Dante Alighieri
A cloud of rot chased me back. I stumbled, falling against the Drone’s chest. Shock stole my breath and cremated my ability to process the swaying body, metal mask, dog crate, and spanking bench.
The shove at my back sent me hurtling. My toe caught. Graveled dirt smashed into my knees then my chin without my hands to stop the forward motion.
Two iron hooks hung from the ceiling, suspending a girl with all-white eyes. I would’ve gauged her youth as prepubescent if it weren’t for the full-term bulge of her belly. Tiny hands curled around the prongs, which pierced through her palms and held her weight.
Blood stained the butterfly embroidery on her tattered skirt. A molded restraint mask with a barred mouth hole concealed her face but not the terror in her glassy eyes. Green-gray toes stretched toward the ground, toward the reprieve she wouldn’t reach.
Bile spurted from my mouth and seeped into the earth. “Free the nymph. What’s the point in hanging her like that?”
A boot heel dug into my hair, pinning my cheek to the dirt floor. “To break her.”
Cane cuts on her undeveloped breasts expanded with her inhales. Her eyes fluttered closed. Silent. Broken.