Page 16

Alexandra

Pink

P ink. Of all the colors, it had to be pink.

I glare at Sandra through blurry eyes, swollen from hours of crying.

Her pajamas are the same garish shade as my ruined Chanel.

This is her fault . I bet that hateful Dracoth mixed our clothes together, doing whatever weird alien thing he did to them, causing the dye to run.

The universe conspires to add insult upon insult.

I lie curled up on the cold metal floor, wrapped in furs like some misery-garnished human burrito, trying to ignore Carmen’s relentless pacing.

There’s something almost soothing in this familiar despair, warmed by the musky smell of these furs.

Where did they come from, anyway? Some massive beast with two heads and six clawed arms?

Hardly. Probably from cute little bunny creatures our oh-so-brave kidnapper strangled to death—twisting their little heads off with glee on his ugly face.

Fuck him and that Demon Egg-Head.

Every time he stomps past our cell like the not-so-jolly-red-fucking-giant, I want to retch.

Slasher Dracoth often dumps some awful rubbery bars on us that could double as doorstops.

Right now, I’m gnawing one, my jaw aching with effort.

Who knew the secret to weight loss was inedible bars and abduction-induced torture?

He even asks us how we’re doing—as if he cared.

If he did, he wouldn’t have kidnapped us or ruined my beautiful Chanel.

Usually, Carmen does the talking, spitting insults like she’s auditioning for a battle rap.

I’m grateful; it often drives him away and leaves me to wallow in my justified misery.

Has anyone in history ever suffered such indignities?

Joan of Arc, Princess Diana, Jesus? I don’t wish to be big-headed, but I might be up there.

Kazumi and Sandra cry and beg for Earth, but lately they’ve perked up a bit, leaving me to shoulder the group’s despair quota.

At least they have homes to miss. What do I have?

A hateful mother who disowned me, a father who wishes I were dead, debt, homelessness.

A life of wearing used shopping bags and eating garbage, surrounded by smelly people.

Michael, Todd, Sarah, Roger... hell, my entire boarding school would love it if I ended up as the homeless Bigfoot of New York—a cautionary tale.

A fresh round of sobs shakes me as I clutch my ruined Chanel. Like my life, it was once beautiful and effortlessly elegant, but now it’s marred in pink-hue shit and torn to ribbons.

“You crying again, chica ?” Carmen asks, sighing loudly, her footsteps echoing across the black floor, which serves as my harsh bed.

“Go away,” I whimper between loud sniffles and wails, pulling the furs tighter around me.

“You’ve been crying for days!” Carmen exclaims, her footsteps halting nearby. I assume she can only see the darkness of my furry cocoon of suffering. “It’s driving me loca .” Her footsteps draw closer, and I squirm into the corner, avoiding the so-called toilet—another horrible indignity.

“Leave her alone, Carmen,” Sandra interjects in her thick Scottish accent. You tell the annoying loudmouth. “Not everyone is like you.”

Carmen scoffs. “ Princesa here was calmer than water until she came back from that pod.” She moves closer and I estimate she’s standing directly above me. “Now she’s busted.” Yep, her voice is very close.

Piss off, Carmen. Just leave me alone!

“You don’t know what they did to her in there,” Sandra retorts. Their exchange irks me; I just want to be forgotten. “They might have... touched her,” she posits with a whisper.

I touched myself, for fuck’s sake. Kill me now.

“No way, chica ,” Carmen replies, her attention seemingly turned to Sandra. “That green stuff fixed me up. You see this?” she asks, shifting above me. “Nine millimeters straight through to the bone. Hurt like a perra . Now.” She tsks. “Good as new.”

What if I put my Chanel in the pod?

“She right,” Kazumi interjects with broken English and a thick Japanese accent. “My hands and eyesight much better.” The green mists felt amazing. The only fleeting joy I’ve experienced since that awful interview.

“See?” Carmen declares, as if something important has been revealed. “They never touched our Princesa .” Her voice sounds very close now. I imagine she’s creeping just above my furs. “It’s something else!” she shouts.

I scream in protest as my soothing blankets of furs are torn from my shaking grasp, leaving me huddled and naked on the floor. The cold rushes to envelop me, making goosebumps appear all over. Carmen stands over me smirking, my furs clutched in her grip.

“Give me back my blanket, you fucking bitch!” I spit, my despair evaporating against my seething anger.

Kazumi and Sandra gasp, shifting at the other end of the dim purple cell. “You’re not crying now, Princesa.” The hateful Carmen doesn’t relent, instead gesturing with her free hand. “We trade. This fur for that dress you’ve been shrieking over.”

“It’s not a dress!” I scream, glancing down uselessly. “It’s a Chanel suit, which that giant red asshole ruined!” I glare icily at Carmen.

Carmen’s eyes grow wide at my outburst. That’s right, you better be scared!

She glances back at Kazumi and Sandra, disbelief etched on his face.

I know what she’s doing. Turning the other women against me.

It’s just like boarding school all over again.

She grimaces, bunching up my furs into a tight ball.

“GIVE... ME... BACK—”

Hateful Carmen hurls the ball of furs, smashing it into my face as if she’s playing dodgeball.

I recoil, yelling outraged gibberish as the blanket obscures my sight.

Then, a sharp tug rips my ruined Chanel from my grasp.

My mouth moves soundlessly as I think about strangling the smirking bitch, but I swallow the notion.

What’s the point? The dress is ruined, just like my life. Why not let her have it?

“Let’s see what’s got our Princesa upset,” Carmen declares, fluttering my suit like a captured enemy flag.

I wrap my furs around me before lying on the floor, grateful for their comforting warmth. Carmen titters, drawing my attention as she straightens out my pink suit.

The red asshole didn’t tear it into ribbons. Oh, no, he thinks he’s hilarious, our giant alien abductor. “It’s fixed,” Dracoth, the comedian’s deep, gravelly voice, echoes through my memory.

The chest area has a gaping oval hole, and the skirt has been clipped down to almost nothing. I shake my head in annoyance, but a teeny-weeny part of me is glad it’s not completely ruined.

“What’s wrong with it?” Carmen ask’s dumbly, turning the skimp-ified suit towards the other women. “You’re crying over nothing, chica ,” she declares, tossing me back my clothes.

I frown at Carmen. Of course, she couldn’t tell the difference between a proper Chanel and.

.. whatever this Frankenstein-like travesty is.

Though the material still feels soft and luxurious under my fingers.

The color is dreadful, and the cut is a mockery.

But it’s still a Chanel—better than what the others are wearing.

A flicker of pride and hope blooms within me as I rise, clutching the remnants of my dignity.

With haste, I throw it on, enjoying the familiar plush feel of the material.

I breathe deep, straightening the fabric, feeling a sense of pride and high status encasing me.

It’s a shame I don’t have my Birkin handbag to complete the look.

Ah. But it’s the wrong color now—it wouldn’t match.

They almost took this away from me, but it’s still mine.

Yes, yes! This is me; this is who I am, a woman of luxury and grace.

“ Princesa , you look straight out of Zona Norte wearing that.” Carmen erupts into laughter, and even Kazumi and Sandra share a quiet giggle.

Rude bitches!

I glance down in horror to see my ample breasts almost spilling out of the hole that pervy Dracoth made. But that pales compared to the skirt, which doesn’t even cover the bottom portion of my ass.

“It suits you!” Carmen twists the knife, noticing my disdain.

“I look like an X-rated Barbie!” I exclaim, arms sprawled wide in disbelief.

“Barbie wishes she had tetas like those,” Carmen retorts, pointing at my boobs with a mischievous grin, prompting me to cover them. “I’d trade anything for tetas like those!”

“I’d swap them for yours if I could!” I exclaim, feeling the heat rush to my cheeks. Though, in truth, I’d only make the trade because of this horrible ship and our situation—here, they’re more of a liability than an asset, already drawing unwanted attention.

Suddenly, footsteps echo through the metallic corridor outside our cell. “Someone’s coming,” I gasp. The sound differs from the heavy strides of pervy Dracoth. Lighter, like several smaller figures moving quickly.

We instinctively press our backs against the cold, unyielding wall, trying to distance ourselves from the bars.

Except Carmen, who clenches her fists and glares towards the growing noise.

I hold my breath, nerves on edge, hoping it’s pervy Dracoth.

.. at least with him, you know what to expect—a giant bore.

Just as my heart feels like it’s about to burst from overuse, three mini-Dracoths march past our cell.

They’re clad in the same ashen armor our captor sometimes wears, and their faces are hidden behind those terrifyingly smooth masks with narrow, slanted black eyes.

But the most shocking and offensive thing is, they didn’t even glance in our direction—rude!