Burning Passions

I had no other choice when my father forced me into prostitution, so I've been within the tormenting walls of Dale's for five years now. During these five years, I've learned a lot, especially our four main rules:

Don't cry when it hurts! Don't scream when it hurts! Don't hear your companions' pain! Don't dare to ask for help when it hurts!

This text is projected onto the ceiling, in Arial font, with a font size of twelve.

However, they forgot to project the most important rule, which is none other than speech.

The most important rule, however, was forgotten to be projected, which is none other than speech. We must not talk, neither to each other nor to the guards. Silence reigns. If a needle fell in the other room, we would hear it. The entire Dale's is soundproofed, so we don't hear the hustle and bustle of New York.

Our little group is divided into two groups. There are those who satisfy the partners within this building, and there are those who go with an escort to the designated place. We alternate weekly. Outdoor existence is sometimes painful because during this one week, one's brain gets used to the grave silence, so when we step out of Dale's door on Monday evening, a torment overtakes our bodies. The rumble of cars, people's conversations, everything is so sharp... And painful.

But, there's no talk of pain.

Tomorrow, outdoor existence begins again. I'm afraid. Dale's causes social problems for the men living here, there is no doubt about that.

I sit in the room, trying to tend to my wound. My attempt is unsuccessful; my afternoon partner gripped my wrist too tightly, causing my skin to chafe.

The room is very small. At least, it's not enough for two people. My roommate, Johnny, always jokes that soon we'll both turn into bugs, like the character in Kafka's novel. According to him, the reason Samsa turned into a bug is because his room was too small.

We have a double bed, above it a window, barred, there's a bathroom, and a small closet next to the bed where our weekly clothes and first aid kit are. Whenever we get hurt, or our partners hurt us with some tool, we must immediately tend to our wounds, as it reflects poorly on Dale's.

I look nervously at the door, which clicks shut.

Johnny enters through the door; I glance at the wall clock, half-past four, probably just had dinner. My friend surveys me, then sighs silently. He grabs the large notebook from the edge of the closet. This is our Conversation Notebook.

As he starts writing in it, I set aside the cotton and disinfectant.

Does it hurt a lot? - He flips the notebook towards me.

I press my lips together, nodding. The boy continues to write. It has a red cover, which matches his chocolate-colored skin. His dreadlocks dance as he writes, there's a small scar under his eye. He got it from his brother. He said he got it because his brother loves him very much. Irony.

Good luck with the next one; I hope that someone won't pin you down like a bed. He flashes his teeth. I have no idea how he manages to smile like that. His smile is so natural even in this fucked-up situation.

Have you had lunch?

He mimics vomiting.

IT WAS TERRIBLE!

I believe you. - I respond.

We both nervously look at the door, the lock clicks again. One of the guards comes in. Their faces are covered with masks, dressed in military uniforms, steel-toed boots with a rubber baton and a loaded gun on their belts.

"Kieran, it's lunchtime!"

I hate my nickname. Everyone has one, so our relatives won't find us.

I walk out the door. A shiver runs down my spine as the cold touches my bare arms. The place is huge; we're in the basement, so everything seems so small. The basement is shrouded in darkness, torches are placed next to doors painted with numbers, providing a little light. The guard closes the iron door, which echoes, then takes out his rubber baton, nudges me, and I start walking towards the dining room ahead of him. I feel like a death row convict being led to the electric chair. I have thin socks on; I feel the cold, damp floor under my feet. The man opens the wooden door for me, and I find myself in a brightly lit dining room; a single bulb illuminates the whole square meter.

Only twelve people can eat in the dining room, everyone has five minutes to eat their food; if they don't obey, the guards take them to the Torture Room. I've never been there... Those who ended up there, ninety percent of them stayed there. Dead.

I sit down on the chair where the guard leads me. There's dry bread with butter and a small glass of water. I take a gulp. My stomach rumbles loudly. One of the guys, who probably heard the sign of my hunger, looks at me sympathetically.

I manage to swallow the first bite with difficulty.

"Be happy while there's food. There are some who don't even get this much. Be grateful, give thanks to God" - the man mumbles as he walks confidently through the tables with his hands behind his back.

The guard steps up to a guy. The guy slowly looks up at the uniformed man, and I catch sight of his freckled face and brown eyes.

"God is dead."

Everyone looks up at the thin, quiet voice.

The guard rolls his eyes.

"God is dead, damn it!" - he shouts. The whole room echoes with his shouting. - "Are you fed up with it?" - We watch the rebel in tense silence, who slams the table. "You're fucking cripples, all of you, I won't let you ruin me, I won't let you, damn it! I'll be my own master..."

He can't finish his speech. The guard grabs his hair, slams his head into the table. He forcibly pulls him up, his head bangs on the wooden table again. Again, and again. I clutch my thigh, my heart moves into my throat, pounding continuously. Blood drips from the table. The guy becomes lifeless. And his voice finally fades away.

"This is what happens to those who break the rule, boys." - The guard aims a gun at him. - "God will never forgive you, Charles Wagner" - he utters the boy's real name, then shoots.

The sound of the shot goes straight to my heart; I feel like the bullet hit me.

Silence falls over the whole room.

The man sighs.

"Everyone, back to your rooms. If your partner didn't come to lunch, they won't today. Cleaning time!"

Two men come out from the back storage, in white uniforms, gloves, with a mop and a trash bag.

"Kieran!"

My blood freezes in my veins. I stop instinctively. Holding my breath, I listen to the guard's further orders, trembling. Is he going to kill me?

I wait for the bullet, but fortunately, it doesn't pierce my brain.

"Come with me, I want to talk to you."

The guard pokes me with his rubber baton from behind, but I can't help it; I can barely hold myself up, the food turned out to be too little, and the water wasn't enough. I grip the railing tightly, forcing myself up the stairs.

We reach the top. A long, seemingly endless corridor unfolds before me. We stop in front of the first room. There's a number painted on the door, but I can't read it.

I step onto the threshold slowly, uncertainly. I find myself in an average room, larger than ours, with brown walls, and a single torch burns by the window. The window faces the courtyard.

"Kieran, your partner, Marcus, passed away in a car accident," the guard's words shock me. Marcus was my driver, who took me to the partners. "So, you'll have a new escort, Percy."

Dizziness clouds my mind more and more, so I can't comprehend the next words. The last image I remember is Percy's outstretched fingers reaching towards me. Then, I faint.