Page 16

16

LAVINIA

Things sort of stagnate after the nightmare and the night I spent with Dorin, opening up my heart to him, in both spoken and sung words.

He seems to grow even more protective of me, coming to my cell several times a day, taking me to get showered himself, and asking me how I’m feeling.

At the same time, I feel like he’s distancing himself.

He’ll touch me to give me comfort, but he doesn’t take me to get electrotherapy again or do any other inappropriate things to me.

I should be happy about this development, but part of me misses it—the way he made me forget everything.

The way he made me feel cleansed and new.

As if he somehow reset my mind with the warped things he did.

I ask him a few times when I’ll get to see a doctor or get some real treatment, but he always evades my questions or answers vaguely.

It makes me wonder about this place—if it really is what he says it is.

Maybe they don’t care about treatment at all?

Maybe they just care about getting the insane people off the streets—away from everyone else?

Maybe this is just a prison disguised as a mental facility?

And maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life in this cell?

Or maybe it’s something entirely different.

I always shudder at that last thought and try to reason that it really is a mental facility.

But it’s difficult.

There are too many things pointing in other directions.

Such as the strange way the men seemed to fear Dorin when I had the nightmare.

I try to chalk it up to part of the illicitness of this place—that there’s some kind of hierarchy between the orderlies.

And maybe the place is even more corrupt than it appears—there’s more abuse going on than I thought.

Maybe what I’m experiencing is nothing compared to what others endure.

Maybe I’m lucky to have Dorin taken his liking to me.

If he hadn’t done that, maybe the other men would use me in even worse ways.

Or maybe it isn’t a mental facility at all.

All these thoughts rush through my mind as the days drag on, making me feel like I’m going insane.

I can’t figure out if I’m paranoid, if something worse than a little corruption really is amiss here, or if it’s the isolation that’s making me insane.

To avoid the latter, I start singing to myself.

It’s the only thing I can do here.

I sing all the songs my mother taught me, all the ones I’ve picked up in the various places I’ve been, and I even come up with new ones myself.

But not even singing will chase away this new unease creeping along the edges of my mind.

I need answers, so I decide to try to get some from Dorin.

“What’s going to happen to me?” I ask him one morning when he brings me breakfast.

“Please tell me; I need to know.”

“Your situation is being evaluated,” he says, vague as always.

“By who? Shouldn’t I see a doctor? No one’s been here to evaluate me.”

“That’s not for you to worry about.” He sits on the mattress, pulls me between his legs, and scoops a big spoonful of yogurt and fresh fruit up, holding it to my lips.

He’s been feeding me different things lately—more flavorful and varied food.

It helps a bit to have my senses awakened like that, but it’s far from enough to cut through the stagnant, dead routine I’m stuck in.

I push his hand away and turn to look at the closed door.

“Please, Dorin. I’m going insane, just sitting here all day, all alone, nothing to do.”

Something almost like hurt or anger flickers across his features.

“You have me.” He shoves the spoon back to my lips, pressing until I open up, not caring that yogurt drips down my chest.

I quickly chew and swallow before continuing with incredulity.

“I have you. An orderly. Someone who comes to check on me once in a while. Someone who makes sure I eat and don’t kill myself. I need more. I’m in here all day, all alone. I need… I don’t know. Some kind of stimulation. Fresh air. Other people.”

He shoves another spoonful to my lips.

“I can’t give you the last two—”

“Why not?” I say, leaning away from the spoon.

Ignoring my interjection, he continues, “But I can find you something to read. Would that help?”

“Why not, Dorin?” I repeat.

“I need to know. What is this place?”

His tone sharpens as I once again pull away from the prodding spoon.

“Eat.”

“No!” A sudden burst of frustration—maybe helplessness—makes me shove at his arm, yogurt splashing across my thighs and the padded floor.

I freeze as I realize what I’ve done.

The last time I did this, he put me in the straitjacket and filled all my holes.

He gets up, and my lips part as I stare at him, trying to figure out what to say.

Grabbing the bowl, he moves toward the door.

Leaving.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, suddenly anxious about him leaving—him being mad at me.

He’s my only company.

“Don’t leave.”

Fuck , I really am going insane.

Dorin doesn’t spare me a glance.

He just presses his finger to the biometric scanner and leaves.

I sit there, staring baffled at him for several minutes before I drop my head in defeat.

Then I remain like that for several more minutes, not knowing what else to do, until the beep of the scanner makes me jolt upright.

The door opens, and Dorin steps inside.

Relief, shame, defeat, and anticipation swamp me in a whir of conflicting emotions as I see what he’s carrying under his arm.

The straitjacket.

“I promise I’ll behave,” I say, scooting back on the mattress.

But even as my body throbs with the urge to get away, my skin buzzes with another need that has been simmering deep within me for days.

When Dorin sets the bowl of breakfast aside and moves to sit behind me, I don’t try to get away.

I barely even struggle as he grabs my arm and shoves it into a sleeve.

I tell myself it’s because his harsh grip snuffs out my resistance, but really, it’s something else.

My breaths come quicker and louder as he traps both my arms in the closed sleeves, buckles the jacket on the back, then straps my arms into place, wrapped around me in a locked position.

He finishes by pushing me down to lie on the mattress and pulling the front strap between my legs.

His big hand brushes my sensitive lips on the way, making sparks crackle in my nerves.

But that’s it.

No attachments or anything.

He just fastens the strap at the back, locking my pussy up, lonely and unused.

When he pulls me up to sit, I feel flustered and hot.

Needy and wanting.

He drags his hand down my arm, my waist, and settles on my hips—his warm hand on my bare skin.

I want him so bad I can’t seem to think straight.

“Dorin, I-I—”

“What?” This time, his voice is gentle, the irritation gone.

“I—Will you please…” I trail off, unable to say I want him.

“What is it?”

I sigh, slumping in the jacket.

“Nothing.” I desperately want to feel him, but I can’t bear the humiliation if he says no, and I can’t bear the humiliation of knowing I asked for it when he crosses all the lines and breaks me apart.

He pulls me into him—his strong, wide chest and warm body.

Draping an arm over my stomach, he holds me close while leaning his chin on my shoulder and lifting the spoon with a scoopful of yogurt and fruit.

“Eat, little songbird.”

Disappointment turns in my belly, but I open anyway and sink into him.

At first, it’s defeat that has me slumping, but as I sit there, enclosed in his protective embrace—under his strict control in the straitjacket—I feel oddly cared for.

It’s like the helplessness calms my head when combined with the irrational safety I feel in his arms.

Once the bowl is empty, he wraps his other arm around me too.

Then we just sit there.

Our breaths sync as we melt together, breathing each other in and soaking up the feeling of our perfectly connected bodies.

I feel it; he feels it too, this bond that has grown and manifested.

Everything we share.

The scars, the loneliness, the intimacy of him saving me from myself, and the intensity when he took me from myself, broke me down, and freed me.

I want to put voice to it all, but for the same reasons I don’t ask him to touch me, I can’t.

So I remain still, and the quiet comfort is all I get.

Dorin leaves me in the straitjacket, and when he returns sometime later, he has a book with him that he reads out loud to me before feeding me again.

I’m not sure how long he stays, but it’s much longer than usual, as if he actually listened and cared about my loneliness.

Maybe an hour or so.

He holds me close like he did before, caressing me and making me feel safe.

When he finally gets up to leave, he still hasn’t removed the straitjacket.

“You know, I’m not gonna be any more trouble. You can take this off,” I say with a small smile, glancing down at the stiff, white material.

The corners of his lips tip up in a small smile that lights up his eyes.

“I kind of like you like this.” His gaze trails down my restrained arms, the straps at my waist, and the one between my legs.

I swear I see some kind of hunger darkening his expression just before he turns and leaves.

He wants me.

***

I feel a bit like a smitten teenager as I sit in my cell after Dorin’s gone, and I find myself choosing pretty love songs as I sing.

The feeling of going insane has faded somewhat, even despite being confined to a straitjacket like a mad person.

It didn’t feel like Dorin put the straitjacket on me to subdue a crazy person.

It felt…

possessive.

The thought makes me rock along to the rhythm of the song as hope grows inside me.

It’s a dangerous hope, but one I can’t help but clinging to.

Because unlike Zoltan, Dorin’s obsession is not just about my voice or my pretty face.

It reaches much deeper.

A slow scraping makes me look toward the door.

The hatch, which the orderlies never use, is open, and a pair of curious eyes are looking at me through it.

The person doesn’t do anything, just watches.

“Who are you?” I ask in Russian.

The guards here speak all kinds of languages, some Russian too, so I usually start in my mother tongue.

When I don’t get a response, I shift to English.

“Who are you?” Still no answer, so I add, “A new orderly?”

I have a hunch that’s not the case.

The eyes look soft and feminine.

Innocent, unlike all the hardened men who usually come in here.

The woman on the other side of the door confirms my hunch with a shake of her head.

“A doctor?” I ask, hope sparking within me.

“Or a therapist? Is he finally letting me get some real treatment?”

A frown draws a furrow between the thin brows.

She’s clearly neither a doctor nor a therapist.

I guess that was only hopeful thinking from the beginning.

Her behavior would be quite strange for someone working here.

There’s only one possibility that makes sense.

I get up and approach her, smiling softly, as I ask, “Or are you a patient too?”

She steps back as I reach the door.

Leaning against it, I peer out through the opening.

What I see almost makes me gasp.

The person out there is a woman indeed, and she’s naked like I usually am.

Except for one single item.

A wide piece of leather covers her whole jaw in a snug fit.

Straps go over each side of her nose, connecting into a single one that goes over her head, and two more keep the mask in place at the sides.

I can’t even begin to imagine why she’s wearing it.

To keep her quiet?

Or keep her from biting?

Then why is she roaming free like this?

Has she somehow snuck off?

A foreboding sense tightens my stomach, but I ignore it, knowing it’s not this girl I need to be afraid of.

She looks harmless.

Timid and nervous if anything.

As I keep watching the mask, embarrassment seems to tighten her expression, making her eyes flicker back and forth.

“No need for embarrassment,” I say, giving a small chuckle to try and lighten the mood.

But I find that shame rears its ugly head inside me as I add, “I’m in a straitjacket.” I’ve been in this thing all day, and some of the orderlies have even helped me to the bathroom without me thinking much about it.

Then again, they’re always cold and indifferent.

Somehow, having this girl seeing it makes me see it from the outside in a way I haven’t for a long time—a straitjacket, a padded cell, locked up at this facility because I’m in danger to myself.

We stare at each other for a moment, and something unspoken seems to pass between us.

A shared understanding.

It makes me want to open up.

I badly crave a connection to someone other than Dorin, and seeing her embarrassment at her predicament makes me bare my innermost vulnerabilities.

Averting my gaze, I say, “I’m on suicide watch.” I glance back at her.

“At least, so I think. They don’t really tell me much.” I change direction, hoping she might offer me some of the answers Dorin refuses to give.

“Have you been in a padded cell too? Do you get to roam free when you get out?”

She shakes her head once, then repeats.

No and no.

“Do you get electrotherapy too? And straitjackets?” I ask, my voice falling as I feel the defeat of it all.

Shame burns inside me as I add the next question, but I hope this girl will somehow alleviate the humiliation.

“And do they touch you inappropriately too?”

She lifts a finger and shakes her head.

I’m not quite sure what she means until she lifts another finger and shakes her head again.

She’s answering my questions.

Holding up a third finger, she gives me the answer I need the most.

A long affirmative nod confirms that they use her sexually too.

Fear drops into my stomach, and there’s that foreboding sense again.

I want to ask the question that has been swirling in my mind since the night I had that horrible dream: Is this actually a mental facility?

But once again, I ignore it, not daring to face the consequence of a shake of her head.

So instead of fishing for more information, I search for common ground.

“Do you like it? I mean… the way they touch you? Do you come?” I bite my lips together as I realize how I’m once again confessing how broken I am.

Even so, I keep going.

“It feels wrong, doesn’t it? The methods they use here? But somehow, it seems to work.”

I drop my eyes to the padded floor, hating how badly I’m missing Dorin’s touch and the shameful things he’s made me endure.

My heart suddenly aches horribly with the need, and at that moment, I’m not sure if it truly is Dorin I want or if it’s because it’s the only kind of connection I’m getting in this barren, empty place.

Tears well in my eyes, and I don’t even try to hold them in as fingers come through the hatch and brush my cheek.

Looking up, I find the girl having moved close.

Her eyes are soft and sympathetic as she gives a slow nod.

Her brows lift slightly.

It’s almost as if she’s saying that she gets it.

That it’s okay.

A weight lifts from my chest, and everything feels a bit lighter.

I’m about to thank her when she suddenly looks off to the side, seeming to remember something.

She’s clearly not supposed to be here, and now she’s leaving.

“Will you be back?” I ask.

She looks me over and nods.

It’s an uncertain confirmation, but it’s there—she wants to, but she’s not sure she can.

“Do it after lunch if you can,” I say.

“The orderlies rarely come in here at that time. I think they’re on a break of their own. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

She nods again, this time more eagerly.

Then her hands move up to close the hatch.

Just as she begins to pull it shut, I add, “My name is Lavinia, by the way. I wish I could know yours.”

She considers for a moment, a wealth of uncertainty and heavy emotion passing over her face as her head seems to be working overtime.

Then she looks down at her arm, and the uncertainty draws back somewhat.

I breathe as quietly as possible as she hovers, seeming to debate something with herself.

Her nostrils flutter with a heavy sigh as she lifts her right arm and holds the underside up.

I gasp at the sight of a small but prominent tattoo that stands out on her pale skin.

DAX001 it says.

The mark speaks more than words, tightening the quiet bond that has already grown between us.

Someone marked her just like they marked me.

I wonder if she’s here for the same reason as me—if she tried to take her own life too.

Or maybe she went mad from the abuse.

Maybe she’d scream or speak in tongues if they removed the mask.

Something about the idea doesn’t seem right, though.

She doesn’t look crazy.

If anything, she looks…

I stare at her face as she watches the mark, and I realize she looks peaceful.

Maybe this place isn’t so bad after all.

Their methods are warped and illicit, but they seem to work.

This woman in front of me seems to have found peace with the trauma that is haunting her, and I seem to be doing the same—to some extent.

“I have marks too,” I say, looking down at the ugly scars on my thighs.

When she leans close to the hatch, I lift a leg to let her see.

The light in here is dim, but the horrific pattern is too vivid for her not to see.

The way her breaths grow heavier reveals all too clearly that she’s seeing the shame and worthlessness written across my skin quite clearly.

“A man I was with…” I trail off, closing my eyes and breathing hard before continuing.

“He promised me everything, but this was what I got. He used to cut me with a knife, just for the fun of it. Stubbed out his cigars on my skin. I’m sorry someone hurt you too.”

Looking up, I meet her gaze again, but instead of finding the shared understanding I expect, her expression is tight.

She seems almost angry as she backs away from the door.

Pointing at the tattoo on her arm, she shakes her head, and her brows lower as her anger seems to intensify.

And then she runs away.

“No, don’t go. I’m sorry,” I call out through the hatch.

I have no idea what I said to cause her reaction, but whatever it is, I’m sorry for it.

“Please, come back,” I say again, rising on tiptoes to call out through the opening, then dropping back onto my heels to spy after her and repeating in a whisper, “Please come back.” I stand there for several minutes, barely breathing as I listen for the gentle taps of her feet against the stone floor, but she doesn’t return.