Читать книгу Ananke - Gilda Salinas - Страница 3

The door shuts with a bang. Still carried away by the nightmare, Mélida hears a sharp noise. Was that a gunshot? Her friend Dulce falls in slow motion, nothing can stop her crash against a pool of blood that grows larger by the second. The steady rhythm of gravity pulls her friend, but then she is falling, Mélida is facing that deep, red lagoon… she is her friend and herself, her sight, her pain, and she’s passing out.

Between the noise and the need to escape that sight, it feels like minutes have gone by. Stand up! At last, she does. No wounds on her chest. Her hands are fine, but she feels the intense pounding of her heart. Where am I? Her eyes sweep the room. It was a dream, but Oscar? Did he slam the door? She snaps her fingers, and puffs. She wants to sleep, lie back down. No. Something tells her to stay awake and think.

About what? No, I don’t want to, it’s not good.

She cringes. Did Oscar actually leave? Seems odd. She needs to pee and to sleep, no time for other bullshit. She stumbles toward the bathroom. There’s no relief for her. She hears the trickle, and a chill drains her body. She has to sleep or she won’t have energy to service customers until 5 a.m., closing hours. One time she passed out, and a customer took advantage of it. Of course, she got the blame. Even after being used like a rag doll, her captors reprimanded her for giving a freebie. They pulled her by the hair as usual; curls are good for grabbing. Yeah, she better rest. It’s either that or going back to cocaine, but there’s no coming out of that hole.

No thoughts. What she can do is forget everything, even who she is. Her command over a body that isn’t her own, as if it were a programmed machine, never ceases to amaze her.

She goes back to bed, eyes barely open, and scans her surroundings. It does look like they’re alone. Where’s Dahlia? There’s no sign of him, but Mélida pricks up her ears and recognizes the other girls. That’s Silvia, she’s a heavy breather. There’s Yesenia, she snores a lot. Perhaps Dahlia was the one who shut the door. Maybe he went to get food or drugs… or a man. Did something come up?

Memories suddenly invade her thoughts. This much is true: They arrived from Cuautla early in the morning. They were taken upstairs to sleep. Oscar came in later, with a bottle of liquor in his hand, eager to keep the party going despite the quarrel, the threats, the journey, and the road. She had a headache, and more than enough alcohol in her blood, but she joined them for a while. They drank. She saw them get high to keep on drinking. This was her world now. They were even joking. It was odd to see Oscar and Dahlia being so friendly to them. Everyone was in a good mood.

Her pain increased, she really needed to sleep. They let her be, but later she felt Oscar behind her, his hands on her breasts, his warm tongue on her neck, his growing erection pressing against her ass. Girls were laughing. Dahlia recited made up, dirty, and funny verses until Mélida stopped hearing to give in to the burning desires of the blood; the business of opening up her legs made her think that she wouldn’t be able to enjoy the act ever again.

He filled up her body smoothly. For a brief moment, she thought, he was holding her with something more than lust, almost like love, she felt. She turned around to caress every muscle in his back, his skin, the humidity in his pores. It had been so long since she had embraced someone. Right after the orgasm, they stayed still and tight against each other. Then she fell asleep. That’s all she can remember.

Once again, she fights to stay awake. Something’s amiss: There’s no caretaker, and the door. is it open? She could escape, but can she? The possibility frightens her. They kill you if you try, but so what? Her desire has always been the same, ever since day one, sometimes greater, a desperate longing; it’s like an itch she can’t scratch, and sometimes she can pretend it’s not there. Specially, at the very last minute, she forces herself to believe it doesn’t matter, that she’s not thinking, that everything’s fine, but no, the same goal burns inside her: Run away, keep trying, even after failing the first time, the second time, the third… try again. Run. Away.

This is the moment. No one’s watching. Escape, yes? I have no clothes. Her eyes survey the mess. Dahlia didn’t take out the bag with rags from the previous night, nor the platforms. He always does it, every night. It’s to keep the women naked, but now the pile of clothes is still in the corner where all three of them got undressed. He must be insanely drunk if he forgot, or is it a trap? It’s not like I could ask him.

She’s on edge, and that makes her react. Mélida gets it together. That top? Damn, it reeks of sweat, and who knows what else. She opts for wrapping herself with a towel. No. Everyone would notice a person with a white towel… well, gray, actually. The other top and the miniskirt will make do, even if colors don’t match. God, I hope it’s not freezing out there! As she puts her feet inside the platforms, she thinks of straightening her hair, or at least wearing a headband. She gives up, it’s pointless to fight her unruly curls. Why do I even care? No time to waste.

She stops right before the door, and tries to listen, to get the lay of the land. Slowly, very slowly, she opens the door, and her heart sinks, what if this flowery-named fucker is playing with me? He is a vengeful faggot. She breathes in, and tenses her muscles. Move!

She pulls the door, and exposes herself, but no one’s in sight. Her heart might just come out of her body. She is alone. Fear takes hold of her feet, and the hall seems longer than usual. How many hours have passed since they arrived? How long did she sleep? Four hours at the most. Adrenaline pumps her body, it hurts. She feels dizzy. Put up with it, I’d rather have that bastard kill me than lose my chance, she thinks, but she doesn’t want that, she doesn’t actually want to die, even if she says it, or thinks it, she needs to stay alive. Her only hope is that she is lucky, invisible, able to escape this time around. She shakes her head, and starts walking; every step is dangerous, someone could notice her. “Walk normally, like a guest. Without a bag? Shit.”

She has no bag, where could she have left the one that… she really needs a bag for support as she walks toward the stairs.

Two steps, a series of long, winding stairs, and her heart is still racing, it doesn’t let her breathe. She’s terrified because any minute now… “Mother of God, please pray for me that I make it to the street. Just get me there.”

Somehow, she musters strength and is able to stand up straight and go down without much concern, even if every step feels like an eternity. Just a bit more.

Shadows, voices, someone is climbing up, and she is still halfway through. Terror crawls inside her through her navel, and grabs onto reason, like a freezing claw ripping her apart.

She murmurs prayers again. All she wants is to cry, kneel down, run back upstairs. No. She faces the wall to act as if she just dropped an earring. I’m not even wearing one. Who the fuck cares? She stays down, scratching the dirty rug despite her head is spinning. Her ears can’t decipher the conversation of the people coming upstairs, but one thing is for sure: that’s not Dahlia.

The couple finds odd the sight at their feet: a woman crouching on the floor, messy hair all over her face, her fingers stretching over the worn carpet, but they’re only distracted for a second before resuming their hurried—and horny—steps toward the first floor.

Mélida is able to reach the lobby. She walks toward the midday sunlight. Doors are open. She hears someone mutter “Hey, wait,” but the voice is drowned out by the revving sound of a motorcycle.

She doesn’t care where she is walking, as long as she keeps doing it. If she’s lucky, today she’ll hold her baby boy once again. If she’s lucky, the nightmare will be over.

“Where the fuck you think you’re going?”

That’s definitely aimed at her.

She tries to hurry, but the platforms are heavy. It’s impossible to walk. She quickly takes them off and runs barefoot with all her might. The noisy street prevents her from hearing the insults aimed at her. She can’t feel the pavement as she runs against the wind. A quick turn to the left and then through the street. The voice behind her. A car honks. Insults. The voice. Her pulse. Nausea. She wails.

She looks back to find her chaser, and suddenly she clashes against a taco stand. She almost trips, but she’s able to stop in time before falling over the boxes. Her hands are in the air, and everyone’s watching.

“Is something wrong, miss?” Someone asks.

She looks up. It’s a cop. A good cop? She turns around to escape, to go back, but the fat man chasing her is six feet away from her. The rage in his eyes, the threat in his face. What can she do? Protect me, dear God.

“Please help me. I’ve been kidnapped.”