Page 8 of Beautifully Ruined

I shudder.

It would be easy for me to put it down as rantings by a girl who has lost her mind. Who was probably drugged because she often slurs, says strange things, like she’s hallucinating.

But I believe her.

I think they beat her for spilling a drop of soup. I think they might beat her for sadistic fun, to control her and destroy her. Break her in.

Is that my fate?

“I don’t like soup, either.”

And she giggles, a sound that borders on the edge of hysteria. “I like the pretty buildings and the park. I miss the sky. Do you miss the sky?” Then it’s like a switch is flipped. “I don’t like the bugs. They bite. Do you know when they’ll come? They’ll bring me medicine. I need it. To control the bugs. I need my medicine.” And she flips once more. “I like you. Are you my friend?”

“I’m your friend.” I hold back the tears as I swallow over the burning lump in my throat. “I like you, too. We can hang out when we’re free.”

“Oh, no. We’ll never be free. I miss the sky…” She weaves from topic to topic, making little sense. Her medicine might be to blame. That, and she’s broken in spirit and maybe in mind.

I’m sure the medicine is what she calls whatever they’re drugging her with. I have zero experience with drugs outside of pot and cocaine. Not that I’ve done either, but Jack has, though Jack likes his weed more than the coke.

But this isn’t either of those. This is hardcore shit that’s got her addicted.

And the bugs are probably her withdrawal symptoms.

I’ve been here a while and not one bug has crawled on me. And I haven’t even seen so much as a roach.

For a dungeon, it’s clean.

I laugh silently, the hysteria bubbling beneath it like a voiceless scream.

I focus on the girl. “Do you have family?”

“I like that old show, the Golden Girls. I wish they’d give me a TV. I wish they’d come soon. Do you think they will? I hope so. I need my medicine.” She falls silent, then, “But when they do, you must behave. They’ll hurt you otherwise. I don’t want you to die. And don’t tell them you know me. You’re my secret friend. Are you real?”

“I’m real,” I whisper.

“I hope so. It’s hard to know what’s real and isn’t. I bet you’re pretty. I’m pretty. I know I am, or they wouldn’t have taken me. They like pretty girls only…” Another meandering word salad I don’t really try and follow.

I listen for hints of truth, the sparkling moments of clarity.

But Jean is drug addled, delusional, and suffering from being locked up and, I assume, tortured, for eight months.

It’s enough to send anyone off into their own world.

She’s frail, though. That doesn’t change.

But if I keep her talking, we’re not alone, and we both know no one is dead. Yet.

But I have more selfish motives.

I want her to talk to me so I can distract myself from the dark thoughts that circle me.

I might die here. I might end up like Jean, addled, waiting to be taken as a toy for men. A real one. And that’s a horrific fate, no matter how I look at it because there’s only one outcome from that, too.

Death.

All the roads in here lead there.

And the longer I’m here, the more likely that fate is waiting.