Chapter 5

I wasn't sure which of us would break first, the girl under torture, or me tied to a chair watching her get tortured. The Painter restrained her, strangled her with his belt. The Professor asked the questions – and caused the pain. It started with smacks and pinches. The question, "Where's Sara?"

She held out through a lot. She held out through the smacks and the punches, through the choking and the crop. Even the pliers. She said nothing when he took pliers and pinched large chunks of flesh. She screamed in pain and terror as they tore deep, but she didn't talk. The Painter pulled his belt tight and said he would kill her. She gurgled, hissed, and turned blue. Her legs kicked the floor. But when he loosened his belt, and after she caught her breath – long, sickening gasps – she still said nothing. She cried, but said no words.

It was the flame that finally broke her, when the Professor took a lighter and began to burn her tits. Then she told it all, The Independence, the room, even 'Beverly Sommers'. She said it through tears and sobs, but it all came out.

The Painter released his belt and she fell to the hardwood floor. "Tie her up," the Professor ordered, "and call the Mechanic. Have him bring us Sara. We're going to have a party today."

I didn't like way he said party. I knew just what it meant. Three girls in a room, with them.

A cruel grin crossed the Painter's face. His eyes darted about, at me, at the girl. Then, he put her in a chair and wrapped her with a rope. She looked to me with sad, wet eyes. "I'm sorry, Robin. I'm so sorry."

So was I.

After tying her, the Painter strutted from the room and slammed the door behind him. The Professor remained. Again, he settled in his chair facing me. Madeline slumped in her chair and whimpered.

"I do hope she shuts up," he said. "Nothing tries the nerves more than a crying girl, don't you agree?" I said nothing. He reached and touched my face. "Oh come now. Silent pouting is hardly becoming." After a bit, he shrugged.

Time passed. He got up, walked about the room, meandered over to a window – they were papered over – and peeked out through a tear in the corner. Then he looked at his watch and sighed. He came and sat again. Madeline began to cry.

"Do stop," he said, looking at her askance. Her sobs only deepened. He let out another sigh. Then he rose, removed a small folding knife from his pocket, and walked over to her. His footsteps thumped in the still air of the room. Then he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. He held the knife before her eyes, right before her eyes. "Keep crying, and I cut out your fucking eyes!"

She screamed and shook. The chair wobbled, but he caught it and righted it. He brought the knife close. "Oh fuck, don't do it!" I shouted.

He didn't look at me. His eyes stayed on her, and the knife over her face. But he spoke. "Ah, so you will talk, finally."

"She's a girl. She can't help crying."

"But she's not just a girl!" he said. Then he took his knife and cut her face. Down her cheek. Blood poured out. He shoved her so she fell to the floor, chair and all, with a loud crack. She screamed. He spun to me. "She not just a girl! She's a culture girl." She writhed on the floor, still screaming, still bound do the chair. He turned his back to her and walked to me. "The slave of a culture girl might cry, when we carve on her. But from a culture girl herself I expect better." He reached and touched my stitches. "I know. Until she stops crying, I'll torture you. Do you hear that, little thing? I torture your friend until you shut up!"

Madeline stopped crying. She got very quiet and just lay there, her face a mask of hate. The Professor smiled.

When Sara arrived with the Mechanic and the Painter, she appeared to have come willingly. At least, they didn't drag her through the door. She glanced around the room, at me, at Madeline, even the Professor. A certain sadness crossed her face, a resignation. She didn't cry or scream – that would come later – but I could see the knowledge of death. I felt it too. Of we girls, only Madeline still showed ordinary fear, as if there were still some life to cling to, so desperately. Fear, different from despair.

After they'd tied up Sara, the Professor rose from his chair. "So, shall we begin?"

"I want the young one," the Painter said.

"I have no objections," the Professor said. He turned to the Engineer. "How about you?"

"I fucking want Sara," the Engineer said.

The Professor smiled. "No, my friend. I shall take Sara." He turned to her. "Yes, dear. I've decided to hold a party today, a very special party. Sorry for the last minute invitation."

Sara didn't respond.

The Mechanic looked my way. "I don't want her! She's already damaged. There's nothing left to break in her."

"There's still plenty to break in her body. And don't you love that, breaking bodies?"

The Engineer's hard boots clomped across the floor as he came to me. He didn't look happy, but it appeared that the Professor's word was law. He grabbed my hair. "So, deary, what will it take to break you again?"

I didn't answer him.

"I want to untie her," he said.

"Do as you wish," the Professor said. "Just don't lose control."

"As if!"

He began to undo my bonds. At the same time, the others started work on their respective girls. Right away, I heard Madeline began to scream as the Painter went at her with his belt and his engorged cock – he'd dropped his pants. Once his belt was secure around her neck, he loosed her from the chair, put her on the floor, yanked up the hem of her dress. He raped her right there.

The Professor instead used his knife. From the edge of my vision, as the Engineer slammed me to the floor and came down on top of me, I saw the Professor start on Sara's face. She struggled and groaned as he cut into her. Then the Engineer struck me hard. "Look at me, bitch. Let your friend worry about herself."

I struggled. But I was a small woman and he a large man. I thrust out my hips and tried to squirm from under him, to roll to my knees. He shifted his hips right with mine. Then he put my arm in a lock and twisted hard. I felt my shoulder separate. I didn't scream. It hurt too much to scream, almost too much to breathe. Then he sat up and straddled me. Crushing blows rained down on me. His fists were like lumps of stone. Flesh split and bones strained. Then he stood above me and stomped on me, right in the middle of my torso. I doubled up and gasped for air. While I writhed, I heard his hard footsteps cross the room.

From Madeline, I heard sobs and grunts as the Painter still strangled and raped her. From Sara, I heard groans of pain and saw flowing blood. The Engineer returned with a hammer. "Give me your fucking hand." I curled up and tried to hide my hands, so he started beating my back with the hammer until I rolled over the other way. He stepped aside, then thrust and grabbed an arm. He wrenched it lose, put a knee on it, and laid my hand out on the floor. Slam, slam, slam. My fingers were a ruined mess.

It didn't hurt much anymore, being broken, being torn apart. It was just flesh and bone, weak and hollow, and soon parting. He got hold of the other hand. I didn't resist much. Slam, slam, slam.

I didn't really need my hands anymore. How could they help me? That was the moment I began to cry, to sob, to feel it all escaping, my sweet little life.

Slam, slam, slam. He broke more of me, this time my shoulder, the same one he had torn with the arm lock. I heard Sara start to scream, to really scream. She must have felt it too. Dying.

I heard the Painter let out several loud grunts. Then he said, "Now, this is the best part." Moments later, Madeline began to gurgle.

My legs still worked. My hips still worked. He hadn't broken me there yet. A small shift of my hips. A roll. Then a sharp upward kick, right there between his legs.

My heel struck something hard. A cup? He laughed and swung at me knee. A glancing blow. I rolled. "Fucking bitch!"

I rolled more, over my shoulder and onto my feet. I stood and glanced around. The Painter was done raping Madeline. He squatted – his veiny dick hung loose – with Madeline between his legs and pulled the belt tight. She was shuddering, convulsing, turning blue. With such small hands, she tried to get her fingers between the belt and her crushed throat. It was useless.

Sara wasn't moving at all. There was a lot of blood.

"What's happening?" I heard the Professor ask.

The Mechanic came at me. His hammer swung. I hurtled backward, right into the Painter and Madeline. The Painter fell and I felt her squirm about. Then I heard her voice, her sobs, her deep gasps. The hammer swung again and missed. I retreated more, hopping over the prone Madeline and somehow not falling. The Mechanic still came, stepping over her, his face filled with rage. Back further, right into the waiting arms of the Professor. And his knife – it went to my throat. "Control your bitch!" he shouted.

The hammer took a long arcing swing toward my head, but I dropped my weight and it missed, trading my life for a deep gash in my chin from the Professor's knife. Next, I tried to wrench the knife away. I grabbed its blade with my ruined hands, but my broken bones were useless, and the knife slipped free.

The cuts didn't matter. Dead girls didn't need fingers.

"Control her!"

Another swing. Another desperate dodge. Again, it missed. The Professor wrapped my waist and lifted me. Then – then! – I saw Madeline rise from the floor behind the Mechanic. I saw the Painter rise at the same time. She darted around the Mechanic, right past him, under his arm. I struggled and squirmed, and the Professor didn't see the girl. She grabbed at the knife. She got the knife!

"Fucking bitch!" The Professor shouted. "She has the knife."

She turned, made a lurching thrust, and stabbed the Mechanic in the throat. A bright crimson spray. He swung at her, missed, then staggered away, blood pouring through his grasping hand.

In all the twisting and dodging, in all the squirming, the Professor slipped in a pool of Sara's blood. He and I went down hard. Next, Madeline was on him, shrieking. She drove the knife into his belly again and again. He grunted and groaned. The Painter came at her, but I rolled into his way – the Professor had released me – and he kicked me hard. Didn't matter. I didn't need ribs.