Ray Lin –
The mirror doesn't recognize me anymore.
I wipe the fog away and stare into eyes that don't belong to anyone. Just shadows rimmed in red. Purple blooms on my cheekbone. A split lip. Finger marks on my throat.
I brush my teeth anyway. He likes me clean.
There's blood on the inside of my thighs. Not from a cycle. Not from biology.
From punishment.
From what happens when you say "I want to leave."
I never say it anymore.
I tighten the belt of my robe and step into the hallway. Every floorboard is silent. They were replaced after the first time I ran. The security system was added after the second.
There will not be a third.
The walls of this house are painted white, but it's not real white. It's the white of padded cells and death. It swallows sound. Screams don't echo here.
I pass the kitchen. The marble counters are spotless. Last week he bashed my head into one for breaking a glass. My scalp still bleeds when I run my fingers through it. I smile when I hand him his coffee. Always.
Smile, Ray.
Be a good girl.
My bedroom doesn't have a door. That was the first thing he took from me. Said girls who keep secrets must not need privacy. He meant it. He meant you don't need to feel safe. Not here.
My bed is covered in plush pink blankets. There's a bunny on the pillow. My mother bought it for me before she died. I used to hold it when I cried. Now I stare at it while he rips my soul apart, piece by piece, every night.
I lie down.
I don't sleep.
I never sleep before he comes in.
Because I don't know what he'll bring with him. A belt. A bottle. A man. Men.
They wear masks sometimes. Laugh like it's a party. Like I'm not real.
When it's over, he kisses my forehead.
Like a father.
Like a mockery.
"Sweet dreams, princess."
And I lay there soaked in filth that won't wash off, bones aching, mouth bleeding, body bruised, staring at the ceiling and counting cracks.
Tonight, it's just him.
He walks in slowly. Bare-chested. Glass of whiskey in his hand. Smile like a razor.
"Strip."
I do. Wordlessly.
He sits on the edge of the bed and lights a cigarette.
"You've been too quiet lately," he says. "You think I don't notice?"
I stand in front of him, naked and shivering, and say, "Sorry."
"Don't apologize," he says. "Just remember who you belong to."
He grabs me by the jaw and squeezes hard enough to bruise. I don't flinch. He likes it when I flinch. So I don't.
"You know, there's been interest."
He smirks.
"Sick little men with money. Want to buy you."
I look at the floor.
He laughs. "Don't worry, pet. I won't sell you. Not yet."
Not yet.
His hand drops. He takes another drag.
Then, like he's discussing the weather, he says, "Get on your knees."
And I obey.
Because girls like me don't get to say no.
Not in this house.
Not ever.