Rosalind
“Now, little girl,” my disgusting father says as he leads me out to a
waiting car in the white, frothy concoction I’ve been fitted for. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I need you to behave.”
He nods to someone. I don’t turn my head to look, no matter how much I want to. I have to pick my battles, and seeing who he’s nodding to isn’t one of them. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m outside, at a car, and that means freedom may lie ahead of me.
If I’m smart.
If I’m lucky.
If I play his repulsive games.
I just give a meek bow of my head, right as the hand of one his many goons takes my arm, hard. It’s not Rafe. His touch is impersonal and firm, but never cruel. This is borderline torturous in the grip.
I make myself stay calm. Breathe, which is hard because I’m still drugged. That’s how things roll here: keep the girl drugged, move her, pose her, touch her like she’s a doll. Crushing that line of thinking, I stand, pretending to be unable to move. I’m not sure if what they’re giving me is addictive; the most I’ve taken is ibuprofen before Nikolai.
Even then, he only knocked me out once.
Once more, I drag my thoughts back. The drugs are still in my system; I can feel them in the heaviness to my limbs, the slight weight on my thoughts. It’s low-level, just like Rafe said, so I can function more than I should be able to, but I act like I’m fucked up to the gills. Rafe steps past me, says something to the man at the front of the car, nods to my father, and then, without looking at me, slides into the back seat.
My so-called protector. I don’t like him. I don’t like any of them, and yet…he’s all I have. The only piece of humanity around me, and he’s emotionless. I thought…I thought…
Wrong. That’s what. Thought wrong because I needed to create a fantasy. I took him not wanting to touch me and letting me, in the end, mostly dress myself as a sign of something. Not friendship, but allies?
Like everyone and everything else, he doesn’t care. I made it all up. What was it he’d said to me? We’re not friends. Sure, he halved my dosages, but it wasn’t friendship. At least there’s no Stockholm Syndrome with him. I don’t understand him, I don’t empathize, I just used the only piece of softness here as something to hold onto, that’s all.
“Look at me, cunt.” Derek Finnegan, winner of Father of the damn Year.
I raise my head slowly, and he grins. It’s ugly, self-satisfied, lacking in anything that could even be mistaken as warmth.
“Daddy?” The word sticks into me, bitter and sharp.
His smile broadens. “You’re a filthy whore like your mother.” His eyes glitter with hate. “But you’re younger, prettier, look like me. Because you’re mine, you’re worth something.” Finnegan steps back as he takes me in and nods. “And that’s good,” he says. “Very good.”
I’m wearing the horrible dress Rafe brought me. Deep inside, I shudder at it all. He told me to shower and turned away, letting me do it myself, something for which I’m grateful. The only order was no underwear, which still creeps me out. I know what that means.
So now, here I am, in a small child who wants to be a grown up’s wedding dress, going to get married. What would my father do if I threw up all over him?
Kill me. The flatness of that is pure truth. Instead, I stand and wait like the pathetic docile thing I have to be.
The goon holding me jerks my arm up, and my father nods to him. “A nice big dose, I think.”
This time, I look. The goon has a syringe.
“Another needle, Daddy?” Somehow, I manage that without grimacing.
“Of course, little one. Just so you have a good time, whether you want one or not.”
Since I’m in the world’s most awful wedding dress, a cool breeze making me shiver, maybe whatever he’s going to give me will help block out the coming events. I sort of want that because I know who’s waiting at the end of this.
I steel myself, hoping I can fight the effects, because maybe there’s going to be a chance to run. Maybe-
Pain slams into me as he backhands me across the face and my head cracks back. If the goon didn’t have hold of me, I’d fall.
He hits me again. Again. Then to top it off, as coppery, salty warmth pushes a little at my teeth, he slams his fist into my stomach.
“You are a worthless fucking slut. Nothing more than used goods.” He smooths his hand over my hair as I struggle to breathe. “You’ve made a mess of your make up, little girl. Fix it in the car.” His gaze slides over me as the needle pinches my skin and a familiar coolness enters my body. “Now, he wants you very compliant, Thorne, so spread your legs when he asks. He might share you with his men. I don’t know. Whatever he does, you’ll do it. Understand?”
I stare at him, not speaking. He raises his hand again, then takes me in, dropping his hand to cup my head, fingers digging painfully into my scalp.
“I’m doing you a favor, getting you used to the pain you’ll be feeling. This drug is different. He wanted you to be aware of everything and unable to stop it. Who knows? You’ll probably enjoy it. Now, get in there, say yes when you’re asked, and do your job. I’ll see you at the church.”
He turns and walks away. I hate him. Even as the drug moves through me, it’s something I hold on to: the hate, the need for revenge.
“In.”
I’m pushed into the car, the door slammed shut behind me, followed by a click. I’m locked in with Rafe and the driver in the front.
Rafe just looks at me with that stone-carved face and hands me a bag. “Clean up, Ms. Finnegan. There’s a spot of blood on your lip.” He reaches down and hands me a small plastic bottle of water and a white, folded handkerchief. “Rinse and swallow and then when you’re ready, we’ll put on the veil.”
“You said if I was good-”
“He could have fucked you up so much worse. Bleeding everywhere. Bruised more than you are. Put on your make up and get ready for your new life. When we get there, we part ways.”
Panic scrabbles at me. “G-Goodbye?” The word lacks punch, even as the panic is grasping now.
“The drug’s working.” He lets out the smallest sigh. “You’ll do your job because your life depends on it. Maybe Vitale will keep you drugged. A small mercy.”
“A small mercy would be let-letting me go.”
“Not happening.” He stops speaking, and I slowly get ready, fixing my face, wishing there was something in the small selection of makeup I could use as a weapon. Alas, a mascara wand isn’t going to hold up against men with guns.
My only choice is to run, when and if I get a chance.
The small stone church sits in a pretty, leafy residential area. I don’t know Queenstown, but I’m pretty sure we’re still here. I sit in the car, plotting a way to escape, except it all keeps slipping from reach as my mind shifts and slides. Holding on to anything is hard.
When the door opens, it’s to drag me out, the veil that Rafe handed me throw on. Rough hands pull down the thick tulle to cover my face.
I stumble, but whoever has me holds me up. From a distance, the zoom of cars filters in and I think about screaming, but I’m not sure I can. My father will be here somewhere, and so far, he’s the only one who’s hit me. I don’t think he’ll stop anyone else doing so if I act up. In fact, he’ll probably want pictures.
The cool breeze pushes at me again, flutters the edges of the veil. As I glance down, there are more than one set of polished black shoes and black trousers. When I look up, my vision’s hampered. The thickness of the tulle is thin enough so I can see shapes.
I really want to scream, and I open my mouth, but someone pinches my arm and the hand on the other tightens.
“Your daddy wants you to know,” says the unfamiliar voice, “that if you fuckin’ do anything outta line, I can hurt you. Where we are…no one will help. Now, move.”
I grab at my voluminous skirts and try to walk as I’m marched up over the curb and pulled down a path. There aren’t any steps, just darkness, and a door slams. I’m inside…somewhere.
Whoever had me let go, and I raise trembling fingers to try and lift the veil. I can’t catch it. I keep trying until finally, I lift it and look about.
The room has chairs and tables stacked in it, a door behind me and one at the other end. I try the door behind me, but it’s now locked, one of those automatic things. No escape that way.
I make my way to the other door, the drug working through me fuzzing my head and mouth, making my feet sluggish. I reach for the door. I grab the handle, and it turns.
A shot of adrenaline clears the fog for a moment.
Unlocked.
As I pull it open, male voices cascade in, and I ease it shut, letting the veil fall again.
My eyes burn, and my throat closes as I hang my head. No way out. I’m trapped again. Sucking in a breath as I try and fight whatever they pumped into me this time, I know I need to stay calm, and work out some kind of escape. When I’m in the church, maybe I can pretend I need the bathroom? Or…I swallow…or, after this wedding, maybe then I can run. Residential means people, right? So-
The door opens and a voice filled with creepy delight bursts around me. “There you are.” He sounds young. “Dad said when he’s had his fill, I can have you.”
Oh, God. Is this the horrible fat man’s son? I shudder as soft hands, damp and warm, close around my arm. Music starts up and chairs scrape, and I’m led, stumbling, out of the room. Even from behind the veil I can see we’re not in the church.
A part of me wants to laugh. I’m not good enough for a church wedding. I’m glad.
The fog swirls around me as I’m brought up to a stop. Fat fingers rip at the veil and…something’s wrong. Black spots start to burst into life in my head as it’s yanked up, and my stomach twists in nausea as I almost pitch forward.
“Beautiful, honey baby,” the fat, disgusting man breathes out over me. “What’s my name?”
“D-D-Daddy.”
“Good little girl. I hope you remembered not to put on panties. I’m ripping open that cunt the moment we’re done. As your wedding present, they’re all going after me, every one of them. Look, honey baby.”
I try and focus through the nausea and bursts of black. There are men in the room, only men. My so-called father isn’t here, just a guard from his place, one I saw on my way out today, and men on this horrible man’s side. The son. Guards. Old men. Big men. All of them looking at me like meat, like they can’t wait.
I manage, with effort, to look at the man with the bible. He’s like no priest I’ve ever seen. He probably isn’t one. This Vitale might be Catholic, but this isn’t that kind of wedding. This is going to be a gang rape disguised as one.
Something claws at me, and I lift my eyes to my husband-to-be. I try and push words out, but my mouth is swollen. Words don’t want to come, but I push hard. “P-Please. J-Just you.”
Disgust sinks in as I say the words, but better to have it be just him than all of them. I shift my head to look for a way out, but Vitale grabs my cheeks. I’m barely registering the pain; I’m floating on that sea of fuzz that only washes me now with fear in bursts, like the unconsciousness that keeps flaring up. If I go down. I’m lost.
“Now, honey baby, where’s the fun in that? It’s your wedding day. You’ll be dessert and after, I’ll only let chosen few continue to sample you.” He lets me go, and I sway, fighting the encroaching dark.
“Begin.” Vitale nods to the man with the book as everything dims down and I sway into the man who’s going to marry me. He grins. “So eager.”
“Dearly beloved,” the man with the book intones, launching into the marriage words.
A hysterical giggle breaks out without my permission, and Vitale back hands me, catching my cheek with a ring. I stagger. His son rights me and pushes me to the old man. In front of me, the priest or officiant continues. I try and look around, try to plead for help with my eyes, but no one’s looking at my face. They’re looking at my breasts in the weirdly girly, yet low cut bodice. I try and make my limbs work so I can run, but they’re molasses. It’s all I can do to stand here, fighting the unconsciousness pulling at me.
Vitale grabs my hand and squeezes painfully every time I have to repeat a line. I do. I fumble through the words, my voice thick and slurred and slow. I can’t stop myself, and there’s no way out of it. No way. The darkness is getting thicker, deeper, and my head starts to spin.
Vitale looks at me. “Say it. Say I do.”
“I…I…do.” I don’t. I don’t. I don’t know what’s happening. My stomach is heaving, and maybe, just maybe, someone kindly gave me an overdose. I’d welcome that with open arms.
If I’m dead, then I won’t know. All I want is Nikolai, but he gave me up. All he did was send a rose. I want him. I need him. He’s sweetness compared to this.
“Come here,” my disgusting husband says.
I take a wobbling step, and then I start to pitch to the side, the world wavering, and I’m swallowed up into blessed darkness.