he approaches my door, I don’t know whether to be more excited or frightened. He doesn’t say anything as he unlocks my door and swings it open.
“Come,” he says simply, gesturing for me to leave the cell. I realize that he’s Russian, or maybe Polish or Ukrainian, just from the way he speaks.
“Where are we?” I demand, shivering with a mixture of cold and fear.
“You no talk,” he orders, moving toward me. “Just go out.”
I look at him for a second, wondering if I should resist him. Then again, what am I really resisting? I have no idea where I am now or where he is supposed to lead me to.
“Just tell me where I am—” I plead.
He cuts me off by grabbing me by the shoulder. He inserts a thumb into the flesh there, digging painfully into my skin until I cry out and begin to shrink from his touch. I reach for him, my fingernails finding purchase in his meaty forearm, but he doesn’t even blink in reaction.
“Move!” he yells, giving me a shake.
He rips the wool blanket away with his free hand as he shoves me out of my cell and into the long, sterile hallway. The hallway is shockingly white, broken up only here and there by doors to other cells.
He starts to propel me forward down the hallway. The white tile underfoot is as cold as the cement floors, and it shows some aging, the tiles chipped and cracked.
What is this place? How many other people have been kept here? I count at least six other cells as I am frog-marched past them, but they are all empty.
At the end of the hallway, my guard leads me to a painted white stairwell. I’m half-dragged down the stairs, flight after flight, each flight looking the same as the hallway I just left behind. Six flights, or seven… I lose count of them quickly.
“Where are you taking me?” I try again, but my guard only scowls.
When we reach the bottom floor, he opens the door and pushes me inside. I’m faced with another long hallway of cells, but this one is different.
Though I can’t see anyone, these cells are full of people. Women’s voices. Some calling out for help, some crying, some just murmuring quietly.
“You go,” my guard says, pushing me forward. “Third on right, that is yours.”
I drag my feet, trying to see through the tiny slots in the grey doors, but all I can make out are a couple pairs of eyes. My guard has no interest in the moans or pleas coming from the cells; it is almost as though he is immune to them somehow. He hurries me along, swinging the door to my cell open.
“Go in,” he says. “You get nekkid.”
“Please—” I try, only to have his hand descend onto my shoulder again. This time, when he pushes his thumb into my flesh, he does some serious damage.
I cry out, falling to my knees, tears springing to my eyes. While I’m stunned, he leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Wait!” I call after him. “Please wait!”
But he is gone. I crawl on my hands and knees to the door, peering out the slot. Like before, it is made so that I can only see white walls. I can hear plenty, but nothing really sticks out.
“Hello?” I call. “Can anyone hear me?”
If the other women can, they don’t respond to me directly. I sink down, despondent.
Mostly, I’m wondering, what now? Why am I here? What is about to happen?
Not too long after my guard leaves, a tiny old Asian woman opens my door. Scowling at me, she holds a fancy white dress on a hanger in one hand and a little,0 zippered pouch in the other.
I sit up, studying her face. “Can you tell me where we are?”
If she speaks English, she doesn’t care to answer. Instead, she just motions to the shift dress I’m wearing. “Off!”
“Please, where are we?” I say, imploring her.
The woman looks nonplussed and sets the little pouch down.
“Off now!” she says, raising her voice.
“No!” I argue.
A taser appears from the woman’s voluminous skirts. She brandishes it, impatient with me. “Off!”
I bite my lip, gauging the distance between me, her, and the door. She sees me looking and steps more fully between me and the door. She rattles the hanger.
I wouldn’t have made it anywhere even if I had tried. I know that.
“Off!” she repeats, her tone growing panicky. She glances over her shoulder. I realize that maybe isn’t here of her own free will either.
I turn my back on her and pull the shift up over my head. The woman tsks, turning me around. I shiver and try to use my hands to cover my nakedness. I am extremely ashamed, but my red cheeks do nothing to give the woman pause.
She just puts the taser back in her skirts and motions for me to put my hands up over my head. I lift my hands up, and she slips the dress off of the hanger, forcing it down over my head.
I help work the white tulle dress down over my body, dropping its full skirt to the floor. It is a stunning dress; I feel stupid wearing it, not having showered or shaved for three days.
I want to ask what I am being dressed up for, but the more time I spend with this woman, the less convinced I am that she knows anything at all.
The woman grabs the little pouch that she dropped on the floor, unzipping it to reveal a basic makeup kit. She says something in her native tongue, motioning for me to be still. I close my eyes as she dabs some silver eye makeup on my face with her fingers, then does a lot of bright pink blush with a long brush.
When she’s done, she looks at me, appraising me. She gives a decisive nod, then turns to leave.
“Wait—” I say, but she doesn’t, shutting the door behind her.
Instead, my guard reappears, a syringe in his hand. My eyes widen as I realize that I’m going to be dosed again, and I struggle as he grabs me.
“No! No, I don’t want that!” I cry. “No, please—”
He injects me in my upper arm, ignoring my struggles. Instead of everything going black though, the world just seems to soften. The light takes on a golden hue and my interest in resisting…
Whatever that was, it’s gone now.
My guard leads me out of my cell by the arm, and I go, utterly docile.
3
Arsen
As
