Ghostface Killer(6)

I'm his latest victim. Me, a fourteen-year-old girl, living on the streets. A girl who has nothing. A girl who is nothing. The sky begins to turn pink over the high-rises as morning breaks. He raped me all night. In every which way. Everything hurts. My entire fucking body. I can barely move without a reminder. He said he liked to break slutty little bitches like me. And he did just that. He broke me.

The car stops in front of a brick building, and it takes me a second to realize where we are.

"You're taking me in?" I kick the back of his seat as I see dozens of police cars and officers coming to and fro'. "You said if I gave you what you want, you'd give me what I want! And I want to get the hell away from you!" I continue to kick as a burst of unwelcome emotion erupts inside me. Up until this second I was completely numb, suppressing the feelings of blame and disgust. I don't know what I thought he was going to do with me when it was all over, but show up at a police station was the furthest thing from my mind.

"Settle down back there," he barks at me.

"Never!" I screech. "I'm going to tell everyone! I'm going to tell everyone how you raped me!"

"Hey!" The cop spins around in his seat and grabs me. "You're not going to say shit. You're going to keep that slutty little mouth of yours shut-"

"Or what?" I challenge.





 

 
His facial expression turns to stone and the look in his eyes deadly. "Listen to me, little lady." My stomach turns when he uses my pet name. "I can make your time in juvie pleasant or not so pleasant," he threatens. "You've experienced what I'm capable of. It's your choice."

I immediately shut my mouth.

"You're not a dumb blonde after all."

I spit at him in response, and he laughs. "I definitely enjoyed that fire last night. I'll be jerking off to the memory of you for a long time." He runs his tongue over his teeth, making his nasty mustache dance.

"You're disgusting," I seethe.

"You love it," he mocks.

"You're out of your mind."

"Maybe." He lets go of me and gets out of the car, then drags me out of the back seat. I've been handcuffed the whole time. My wrists feel like someone tried to saw them off from the metal constantly digging into my skin.

My fucking fate is sealed as I'm placed in a jail cell by myself. By law, juveniles have to be separated from general population, which means I'll be all by my lonesome until a social worker or my probation officer shows up. And God knows how long that will be. I tuck myself into a ball on the hard, wooden bench and cry silent tears. I want to disappear. Just shrink away until the cracks in the floor become a landmine of black holes.

I have reached the lowest point in my short life. Facing the rest of my teenage years behind bars in an environment worse than war. I cry harder, hopelessness dragging me under.

The reality of it all is that I'm nothing more than a dirty, damaged, neglected statistic about to get swallowed up by the system. A reality I've been running from for three years-that I have absolutely no purpose and nothing to live for.

The slide of the steel door screeches as it opens. I don't look up to see who's entering my cell. I don't really care. At this point, I don't care about anything.

"Rough night?" A man's voice beckons me to look up.

"The worst ev-" The words die on my lips as I gaze into a pair of steely green eyes. My heart drops like a two-ton boulder.

"How did you get in here?"

"I have my ways." He saunters toward me dressed in black dress pants and a fitted black turtleneck.

"Come to taunt me? Or maybe you want to spank me again?"

His lips twist into a perverted smile. "I'd love to spank you again." He glances at the open cell door. "But not here."

"Where then?" I don't know why I'm goading him. But I'm suddenly extremely pissed off, and all I want to do is hit something. Or someone, maybe him. 

The man I pickpocketed last night crouches in front of me so we are eyelevel. It's the first real look I get of him. Of all his features. He's older, that's for sure. But handsome in that Christian Bale, American Psycho kind of way. Well-dressed with danger dancing in his sharp emerald eyes.

He doesn't speak; he just balances in front of me as he looks me over. As he measures me up.

I don't know how to react, so I just stay crunched in my safe little ball.

"How old are you?" he finally asks, his voice as smooth as silk.

"Fourteen," I answer hesitantly.

"That young?" His facial expression doesn't match the surprise in his tone. "I thought at least sixteen. Your smart mouth ages you. And your spirit, and your long, blonde hair." He musingly pulls a strand through his fingers as I jerk my head away. "You're very pretty."