Read Online The Doll by Taylor Stevens - Free Book Online
Authors: Taylor Stevens
Tags: Fiction
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her to move.
She stood, slow and languid.
Stepped across the floor in no obvious hurry, thoughts jumping and hopscotching from one random piece of information to another, scrambling to assemble a composite of the present and make sense of the unexplainable.
The two sentries still stood outside the office door, and with Lumani leading the way, they followed Munroe back down the gold-worker-flanked pathway, through the metal door, to the underground again, beyond the cell in which she’d been kept, all the way to the end, while the same Hungarian voices droned on as background noise.
Against the far wall of the narrow hallway was yet another guard, who rose from a metal folding chair as the small group approached. With a flick of a finger, Lumani ordered him to unlock the last cell, and the man withdrew a chain from a pocket and from the chain a key.
Clanking metal reverberated through the tight space and then the door slid open. Munroe leaned forward to enter the low doorway and Lumani put out a hand to stop her. She paused, and in that pause a spoon flew past her leg followed by a rush of garbled slurs.
The voice was female, the accent West Coast USA, and as Munroesaw and smelled when she ducked to enter, the holding cell had the retching stench of a pigsty.
Lumani didn’t enter. Like the guards, he remained poised to allow Munroe to go in alone. Behind her, he flipped a switch and the dim light cast a macabre glow over the bedraggled creature that had retreated against the wall. Filth and rot overpowered the permeating wet of damp mold. Whatever food this girl had been given, she’d flung rather than eaten, mostly in the direction of the door. Munroe moved closer to get a better view.
The girl was shackled, one foot chained to a metal ring in the wall like a prisoner in the goddamn Dark Ages. She couldn’t crawl far off the pad that worked as her bed and had been forced to soil herself. Her clothes were filthy, stained, and torn; her hair matted, her face and arms so streaked with grime, it was impossible to see what color her skin had originally been.
Eyes adjusted against the light, the girl moved toward Munroe in a crawl, spewing creative profanity. At her approach, the stench grew stronger and Munroe fought the urge to vomit. The girl lunged, then jerked, caught by the chain. Munroe remained just beyond her clawing reach, the creature cursing and screaming, straining at her bonds with all the anguish and rage of a wild animal taken into captivity.
In response to this, tears of anger and powerlessness welled hot beneath Munroe’s surface. Under other circumstances, violence would have erupted on behalf of this girl, whoever she was, and Munroe, unable to fight back the urge as she had in the hallway prior, or in the office upstairs, would have struck out to destroy the men who had done this.
Innocent life
.
To save Logan would be to abandon this girl to whatever fate the Doll Man prescribed. To save the girl was to abandon Logan. The first wave of defeat crept toward the edge of Munroe’s soul, tugging at the upturned corners of thought, begging to be let in. She was a prisoner of the same story, her own chain just as solid, her walls equally thick.
Munroe turned. She’d seen what she’d come to see.
Outside the cell, where the air was bleach-tinged and free of the nausea-inducing, fetid, sick stench, she could breathe again. Nowords were exchanged in the hallway, not between the guards, not between Lumani and her. He simply nodded once more in the direction of the stairs and Munroe moved toward them.
From behind, the thud of a hose hitting the concrete floor was followed by the squeak of an unwilling tap and a rush of water. And then the girl’s scream again—that gut-piercing, wailing scream.
I N THE LARGE room, Lumani directed Munroe away from the doll office to a smaller room that turned out to be a bathroom with only a toilet and a sink with a speckled and aged mirror. With yet another flick
She stood, slow and languid.
Stepped across the floor in no obvious hurry, thoughts jumping and hopscotching from one random piece of information to another, scrambling to assemble a composite of the present and make sense of the unexplainable.
The two sentries still stood outside the office door, and with Lumani leading the way, they followed Munroe back down the gold-worker-flanked pathway, through the metal door, to the underground again, beyond the cell in which she’d been kept, all the way to the end, while the same Hungarian voices droned on as background noise.
Against the far wall of the narrow hallway was yet another guard, who rose from a metal folding chair as the small group approached. With a flick of a finger, Lumani ordered him to unlock the last cell, and the man withdrew a chain from a pocket and from the chain a key.
Clanking metal reverberated through the tight space and then the door slid open. Munroe leaned forward to enter the low doorway and Lumani put out a hand to stop her. She paused, and in that pause a spoon flew past her leg followed by a rush of garbled slurs.
The voice was female, the accent West Coast USA, and as Munroesaw and smelled when she ducked to enter, the holding cell had the retching stench of a pigsty.
Lumani didn’t enter. Like the guards, he remained poised to allow Munroe to go in alone. Behind her, he flipped a switch and the dim light cast a macabre glow over the bedraggled creature that had retreated against the wall. Filth and rot overpowered the permeating wet of damp mold. Whatever food this girl had been given, she’d flung rather than eaten, mostly in the direction of the door. Munroe moved closer to get a better view.
The girl was shackled, one foot chained to a metal ring in the wall like a prisoner in the goddamn Dark Ages. She couldn’t crawl far off the pad that worked as her bed and had been forced to soil herself. Her clothes were filthy, stained, and torn; her hair matted, her face and arms so streaked with grime, it was impossible to see what color her skin had originally been.
Eyes adjusted against the light, the girl moved toward Munroe in a crawl, spewing creative profanity. At her approach, the stench grew stronger and Munroe fought the urge to vomit. The girl lunged, then jerked, caught by the chain. Munroe remained just beyond her clawing reach, the creature cursing and screaming, straining at her bonds with all the anguish and rage of a wild animal taken into captivity.
In response to this, tears of anger and powerlessness welled hot beneath Munroe’s surface. Under other circumstances, violence would have erupted on behalf of this girl, whoever she was, and Munroe, unable to fight back the urge as she had in the hallway prior, or in the office upstairs, would have struck out to destroy the men who had done this.
Innocent life
.
To save Logan would be to abandon this girl to whatever fate the Doll Man prescribed. To save the girl was to abandon Logan. The first wave of defeat crept toward the edge of Munroe’s soul, tugging at the upturned corners of thought, begging to be let in. She was a prisoner of the same story, her own chain just as solid, her walls equally thick.
Munroe turned. She’d seen what she’d come to see.
Outside the cell, where the air was bleach-tinged and free of the nausea-inducing, fetid, sick stench, she could breathe again. Nowords were exchanged in the hallway, not between the guards, not between Lumani and her. He simply nodded once more in the direction of the stairs and Munroe moved toward them.
From behind, the thud of a hose hitting the concrete floor was followed by the squeak of an unwilling tap and a rush of water. And then the girl’s scream again—that gut-piercing, wailing scream.
I N THE LARGE room, Lumani directed Munroe away from the doll office to a smaller room that turned out to be a bathroom with only a toilet and a sink with a speckled and aged mirror. With yet another flick
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