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Broken Doll by Blake, Zoe (1)


I can’t tell if my eyes are open.

That was my first lucid thought.

I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or closed. It wasn’t just the darkness. I couldn’t feel myself blink. I tried lifting my hands to feel my way around whatever room I was in, but my arms felt weighted down. As if they were trying to move but couldn’t. My heart beat faster. I could feel the panic rising. A fist in my chest painfully squeezed my heart. I needed to stay calm and focus. The last thing I remembered was the accident.

Jesus fuck. The accident.

All that crushed metal and the acrid smell of smoke. I remember the fire, then nothing.

I must have blacked out before they pulled me free. I must be in a hospital.

I must… I must…I must be….

Jesus fuck. I must calm the fuck down and think.

I couldn’t move my body. Nothing seemed to work. Did that mean I was paralyzed?

No. No. I might not be able to move but I could still feel. I could feel the clothes against my skin. The press of fabric against my back. The hard floor beneath my feet.

The hard floor?

Was I standing?

That didn’t make sense. I was probably lying down in a hospital bed.

Jesus fuck. Why couldn’t I see anything?

I tried to speak, to call out for help, but was met with only silence.

Silence and darkness. Darkness and silence.

Just like the accident.

Was I still trapped in the car? Was my mind playing tricks on me? I have heard of people in extreme situations hallucinating. Was that what this was? Would I know it if I were?

Jesus fuck!

Wait. I can hear movement. The shuffling of feet. A nurse? Doctor?

A thin beam of light in the shape of a rectangle appears before me. The outline of a door. But if I’m facing it, then does that mean I’m standing?

I try to close my eyes to the bright flash of light as the door is opened but nothing happens. The light hurts.

“There you are!”

Framed by the white light, the person in front of me is in shadow. I don’t recognize his voice.

I try to speak but nothing happens.

The man grabs me by the waist and spins me around. I see clothes dangling from hangers. Shelves with shoe boxes and a clear container filled with ribbons and hair brushes.

It’s a closet.

Was I in a closet? No, I must be confused.

Jesus fuck, what the fuck is going on?

The man lifts me off my feet and carries me.

I can’t move.

Can’t cry out.

I’m trapped inside my own body.

I should be dead weight, but he lifts me as if I weigh nothing. The room is a spinning flash of color and distorted shapes before I am set down. I cannot move my head, but I see he’s placed me on a sofa. He moves away to walk behind me. I take the moment to observe my surroundings. Expecting to see the usual white linoleum floors and bad pastel artwork of a hospital room, my stomach clenches with fear as I observe the dark, wood paneled room. There is a massive flat screen TV with two leather recliners in front. A small bar with several glowing neon signs, one of which says Steve’s Man Cave. A pinball machine and several black book shelves filled with what looks like movies and video games. The walls are covered in those cheap beer mirrors you see in dive bars.

I can hear what sounds like the opening of a refrigerator. Then the pop and hiss of a beer bottle being opened. The man steps back into my line of vision.

Is this Steve?

He’s older than me. Much older. And tall. He has the sort of build you see in older men who used to be jocks in high school. Broad shoulders and strong arms but with a bit of a soft belly. His hair is dark, but I can’t make out his eyes.

Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck am I? I scream but I hear no sound. His face shows no reaction as he just takes a sip of his beer and stares down at me.

“It’s just you and me. The wife is out getting drunk with her girlfriends, so I got all night. What game should we play?”

I start to scream and thrash about…but it’s only in my head.

“That outfit is all wrong. I think tonight I want you to be a catholic school girl. Yeah, I’m in the mood for some barely legal.” He chuckles as he moves back to the closet. He emerges with a school uniform on a hanger. I try to move away as he approaches, but my body won’t obey.

His large hands flip me over. My face is pushed into the black leather of the sofa. I can feel him pulling down a zipper. His knuckles skim along my back and ass. I must be in a dress. My body feels stiff yet malleable as he roughly pulls the fabric down over my arms and off my hips. I want to cry but the tears won’t come. I can feel his hands on me again. Rough wool scratches my skin. He fumbles at my lower back. The fabric tightens around my waist. He must have put the school uniform skirt on me.

I’m flipped back over.

“Look at those tits. Seems a shame to cover them up. How about we leave the shirt open and tie it under your breasts. Just like the slut you are,” he sneers.

Grabbing me by the back of my head, he pushes me forward till I’m bent in half. I can feel him lifting my arms one at a time as he pulls the shirt up my arms and onto my shoulders. He pushes me back. I’m forced to lie prone as his hands cup my breasts.

I can feel everything.

The scrape from the calluses on his palm.

The press of his fingertips into my flesh.

The damp feel of his skin.

I can feel everything, yet I cannot move. Cannot defend myself. Cannot even cry out.

His hands fumble beneath my breasts. The fabric tightens around my ribcage.

“So, what should I call my slutty school girl tonight?” he asks, tilting his head to one side. “How about Catherine? That’s a good catholic name.”

My name isn’t Catherine I want to yell. It’s Jane. Jane Robinson. I live at 52 Merryweather Lane in Boston. I just graduated from high school and I was on my way to a party. I got into an accident. I’m supposed to be in a hospital. I want my parents. I want my mom.

Nothing. No reaction.

He doesn’t hear me.

He takes another swig from his beer before setting it aside. I watch helplessly as he unbuttons the fly of his jeans. His thick cock springs forward. The skin is a mottled red and purple as it becomes engorged with blood.

This can’t be happening. I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. All I know is I’m about to be raped by this stranger. The furthest I’d ever gone with my ex-boyfriend was second base and now I’m about to lose my virginity, and I can’t even beg him to stop.

“How about you get on your knees and suck my cock like a good girl?”

Once again, he lifts my motionless body. Manipulating my legs till I’m kneeling before the sofa, he takes a seat, straddling my shoulders. Fisting his cock, he licks his lips as he stares at my exposed breasts.

“Damn. Smartest thing I ever did was buy you. Fuck my frigid wife. This is just as good. Better because you can’t complain about choking or not wanting to swallow. Can you, my slut?”

I stare at him in horror. Buy me?

“That’s what I like. A silent woman who knows her place. On her knees with a cock in her mouth.”

His hips shift forward. The head of his cock pushes past my lips. I try to move my jaw, to clamp down on him with my teeth. Nothing happens. He presses further in. My tongue won’t move. There is nothing to prevent him from thrusting deeper. It is as if I am frozen. An inanimate object with an open hole for him to abuse.

“That’s it, bitch. Take it. Suck my cock,” he groans as his hand snakes around to the back of my head.

I want to scream in terror and frustration. Desperately I try to raise my arms, to bite down…to scream!

His thick cock chokes me as I feel the hard shaft press against the back of my throat. Nothing impedes his punishing thrusts. His hand on the back of my head, holds me in place for his assault.

“You like this don’t you? You like being on your knees. Being my little slut,” he rasps.

I don’t! Stop! Stop! Please!

All I can smell is stale beer and leather. My throat burns. My knees begin to ache as they are pressed into the hard wooden floor. As I’m forced forward then back with the motion of his cock, my breasts keep sticking to the leather of the sofa. The room is silent save for his grunts and groans. With one final thrust, my nose smashes against his abdomen as he grips my head from behind, grinding my mouth down on his dick. A thick stream of cum fills my mouth. I want to vomit but can’t.

After a few more pumps, he pulls his flaccid penis from my sore mouth. Shoving me away, I fall to my side on the floor.

Used and no longer useful.

I lie there helpless at his feet, the musky taste of his cum cooling on my tongue. Unable to move, I stare straight ahead at the sofa; underneath it I see used condom wrappers, beer bottle caps, popcorn and crushed potato chips. I am down here with the rest of the discarded and forgotten trash.

He leans back with a groan and reaches for the remote. I hear a click then the mindless buzz of a football game. He places his bare feet on my hip.

I feel bruised and numb. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been on the floor. Nothing more than a foot rest.

“Steve? Steve? Are you down there? Answer me!” a woman’s agitated voice calls from somewhere above.

“Fuck. She’s home early,” curses Steve. “I’ll be right up, dear,” he calls out.

Rising, he leans down and lifts me up high. My feet drag listlessly along the floor as he pulls me behind the bar.

“Open up, sweetheart. Time to clean that dirty mouth of yours,” he whispers almost affectionately. I feel my stomach clench as I fight the urge to retch. Holding me up by my hair, his raises a bottle of dish soap to my mouth.

No! No! What are you doing?

“Open up.”

Bright green liquid soap drips into my mouth. The chemical bitter taste burns my tongue. I so desperately want to cry but the tears won’t come. Steve reaches for the faucet and pulls it free of its base. Turning the water on, he directs the stream directly into my mouth. Cold water shoots down my throat and up my nose. I try to struggle but can’t move. I’m drowning. It feels as though my whole body is shaking but I cannot tell. Pulling the faucet away, he pats my mouth, throat and breasts with a dirty dishtowel.

“All clean,” he states as he once again lifts me up high. “Time to put you back in the closet. Can’t have the wife finding you.”

No! Please no! Don’t put me back there. Back into the darkness. Please! I need the light.

As I wrestle with the rising panic of once more being locked in a closet, I catch a glimpse of myself in his arms in one of the cracked bar mirrors.

I stare.

And stare.

Not believing my eyes.

It’s me…but it’s not me.

I’m not real.

I’m not real!

The mirror reflected the vacant, empty stare of a life-size doll.



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