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Part 7
Another pad and pen! Thank you, thank you, thank you, whoever you are! I go crazy day after day (or is it week after week) with nothing to do but wait. Wait for my bowl of gruel, each little bit of meat imbedded in the rice reminding me that I'll be in there one day for some poor girl to eat. Waiting to be taken to the showers so I'll be nice and clean for the next dozen pigs who want to stick their tool in me or make me drink their piss. Wait for the next trip to the dungeon so some snarling sadist can put me on the rack and stretch me till my shoulders and hips dislocate, then flick cigarette ashes into my mouth and stub it out on my tits or cunt. I try to remember whether my life was better or worse in a cow stall.
I just got back from a really scary party. Maybe that's why this pad arrived on my mat. He wants me to write about it. Okay. What else do I have to do? Count my toes? Lap water out of my toilet? Stare at the cement block walls and diddle myself? Why the fuck not?
The reason it was so scary — at the start — was that it was the first time I've been allowed out of the building since I got here. I remembered that Mr NoName had told me that girls were taken to some other place to be snuffed for roasting. So what the hell was I to think?
There was eight of us girls. The guards cuffed our hands in front of us, put shackles on our ankles and hobbled us out to a waiting panel truck. They had to lift us into the truck because we couldn't step up. The shackle chain was too short. Then they locked the doors. Like we was gonna escape? Nude and shackled hand and foot? They sat us on benches along each side of the truck.
There's a no talking rule in this place. No girl's supposed to talk unless spoken to by a staff member or client. ('Course it don't mean much to the cows from Tony's, since we can't talk no more anyway.) It's one of the things you get punished for around here. But, of course, the girls do it anyway. Like, they whisper to each other around the corner of their cell doors when there's no guard in the corridor.
When the truck starts up, the two guards in front begin jabbering with each other in Spanish and the girl on my right leans close and whispers something in my ear. She's a slim thing with light brown hair and beautiful dark eyes. Her tits are kind of average, maybe 35 B, but she's really young and attractive in a wholesome kind of way.
"You're one of the cow girls, right?" she asks.
I look at her. Being called a cow girl sounds a lot better than being called a cow. I nod.
"I mean," she says, "I saw your brand. Jeez! That must have hurt like hell!"
I nod again.
"Wow!" she says. "Cow girls can't talk because they cut out your voice, right?"
When I nod again she says, "Shit! Can't you even whisper."
I try it. "Only a little." But the look on her face tells me it don't come out very clear.
"What I hear," she says, "is some girls don't never come back from this place they're takin' us to. You know anything about that?"
I shake my head, staring at my knees. Of course I do! But in the first place I can't make myself understood. And in the second place, how can it brighten her day to know that we might be dead within a few hours and cooking over a fire?
"I'm from Iowa," she says. Where are you from?"
For some fucking reason I burst into tears at that point and she looks away. She don't ask me again. And that was the high point of the day.
When we get to the party, we're lifted off the truck by the guards and led immediately to our jobs. Mine turns out to be acting as a kind of decoration. I'm lashed to a cross and crucified with three others to form the points of a quadrangle around the party site. Thank God we wasn't nailed to the crosses (I can only imagine how horrible that must be!). It was terrible enough to hang there for hours. It became impossible to breathe after a while unless I pushed myself upward by my feet which was bound to the sharp point of a wooden cone. Then, after a while, my trembling legs would collapse and I'd be hanging by my wrists again until my lungs demanded more air. Up and down. Up and down. For hours! The skin of my back sore from rubbing hard on the wood cross.
In the meantime, one of the girls who was serving the partygoers as a bargirl was selected by the partygoers as their choice for entree. Next thing you know, she was strapped down, sliced open, degutted and put on a skewer for roasting alive. I cried as the roasting went on and the guests got drunker and drunker. My pain on the cross was only a pittance compared to what she went through before she died.
So there you are, Mr NoName and Mrs Q. Is that what you hoped for?
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