Chapter 2 : Dazed and Sore
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I open my eyes, and I am still in the dirty, dark room. What if he is still here? I bolt upright. Listening carefully for any sound that may suggest that the room is occupied by another, I look for my clothes. Nothing. No clothes and thank God no noises. My wand is also nowhere to be found. He drugs me, he rapes me, he robs me, and then he leaves me defenseless. The first time I let myself think the word. That one little word is all it takes to bring the tears. They flood out of me, making me even more exhausted and sore. They aren’t silent, they aren’t sobs. My whole body is literally shaking with the power of the wails pouring out of me, causing me to convulse. Later- minutes? hours? seconds?- the tears stop coming.
I stand up, look in the closet, and find a bathrobe. Better than nothing. I put it on and look around the room once again. Searching for what, I don’t know. My eyes land on the phone. The police! That’s who I should call. And obviously I need to go to a hospital. Thinking rationally for the first time since this nightmare began, I go to the phone and pick it up, prepare to dial, and slam the phone back down. They can’t know. The press will have a field day. I’m weak, they’ll say. Stupid, ignorant, asking for it. Maybe I am. The police will just laugh at me- say that they don’t help sluts who got what was coming to them. Somehow tears start to fall again. No one can know. My family will pity me. Or tell the world. The team would use it for publicity. I can’t call anyone. I can’t get help. Suddenly it hits me like…like he must have done last night judging by the bruises.
Dom. My sister. Of course. Sweet, sweet Dom. I pick the phone back up and dial the number of her flat. It rings for what seems like hours. What if she doesn’t answer? What if she went on a trip on some stupid whim, leaving the rest of us here to suffer? And then another, horrible, unforgivable thought. She’s left me just like Mama.
“Hello, this is Dom!” says a bright voice.
I sigh and the tears start to run a little faster. In a quite, pathetic, weak voice I say “Hey, Domi.”
“Victiore?” her voice suddenly dead serious. “Where are you? What’s wrong? Can you apparate here or do you need me to come to you?”
I smile through the tears. She always did know me best. Always knew what to do, despite being younger. “Domi, I think I need help.” And the convulsing wails start once more.