“Look at that, what you’ve turned into. What he’s turned you into. Is that what you want? He’s trash, Heather, and I’m sure a clever girl like you understands. Look me in the eye when I’m talking to you.” He imagines her bent over and cuffed to the cold table - dress up over her hips, panties down around her thighs - and almost smiles. “I want a name and address, and you’ll give it to me. Then I can go home and you can go home. I’ll make sure you get a lift.”
Every word makes her head sink lower, bottom lip trembling as her eyes redden with tears. All she wants is fall to her knees and crawl to him, wrap herself around his leg and pray forgiveness, beg for punishment. But she only straightens stiffly back to attention when he commands her to look at him. At first, his next statements are met with strained silence. Her voice drops to a near whisper when she finally attempts to plead, "I can’t afford my medications any other way," and after she looks away again, "…I don’t want to go home."
‘Weak’. It’s true, she knows that, but the word still may as well be acid on her skin. Without a word, she stands on wobbly knees at his command, a shoulder half-shrugged to keep her dress from falling further.Her gaze drops to the floor once the second Draculoid is gone, shoulders sinking as she draws her limbs closer and tighter around herself. Shame colors her voice as she finally admits, “I-I… I need them.”
“No,” back to his chair, “You’re weak. What are you doing with your life …” What is she doing with it. She sells herself, sells her body; she’s desperate, he judges, just how he likes it. With a calm and cold voice he tells her to, “Stand up.”
“Your actions have consequences, Heather.” He sits on the edge of the table, not particularly amused that she wants to bargain. “Just tell me what you do remember.” He lets the Draculoid leave the folded blanket next to the glass of water. Rewards. The door closes, her chance to earn it.
Her gaze drops to the floor once the second Draculoid is gone, shoulders sinking as she draws her limbs closer and tighter around herself. Shame colors her voice as she finally admits, “I-I… I need them.”
Good evening. Who may you be?
Just a citizen, nothing more. My name is Heather. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss…?