MISCHA DIDN'T KNOW what time it had happened. Maybe two in the morning, maybe three. She hadn't slept, fighting off the mounting fear and revulsion as she heard the scurrying of rats in the dark near her, as she swatted away buzzing flies, as she slapped something that bit her leg.343Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN54NoPAZ4M
It happened quickly. A loud rapping at the door. The lock unlatching. Two guards entering, yelling "Barton!" and lifting her off her feet.
They walked Mischa down the stairs, back through the doors where she had entered cell block D, and then they turned right down another long corridor, and then finally went down two more flights of stairs, narrower and winding. The air grew warmer with each step she descended, until it became downright steamy. It was dark and her sleep-deprived eyes weren't working so well to start with. Her body, especially her ribs and legs and back, was sore from the beating she'd taken earlier.
A series of pipes hung down from a low ceiling. Hot water dripped on her as she was led into a dimly lit basement room. Finally, the guard behind her told her stop. She took her right hand and slapped a handcuff on it. Then she raised Mischa's arms and drew the other end of the cuffs around the top of at hick overhead pipe running the length of the rom. Then she cuffed Mischa's left hand. The pipe was about six, maybe seven feet off the floor----high enough to force her to stand on the balls of her feet, her arms stretched to their limit over her head. Mischa's wrist touched the hot pipe and she recoiled.
The guard left her to the hissing steam, to the hot drips on her neck and face and in her hair. Time slowly marched on. Mischa's calves were burning and her back, already sore from the beatings, was soon in agony. Every time her calves relaxed a bit, she had to choose between burning her wrists or cutting them on the handcuffs, which bore into her flesh when the force of gravity on her arms took over.
Mischa gritted her teeth and refused to speak, to make any noise at all. That's what they wanted. They wanted to hear her pain.
After what felt like a century, her calves on fire, her back and neck and shoulders locking up fiercely, Mischa heard footsteps approaching, the hard knock of boots on concrete, the occasional splash from the accumulated pools of warm water on the floor.
The guard who came into Mischa's view was the one who'd beaten her in the courtyard. She made a point of avoiding eye contact, but in the dim lighting the scar near her eye seemed more prominent, almost fluorescent.
"Je m'appelle Coralie," she said, introducing herself. Just Coralie. She'd heard the guards didn't give out their last names for security reasons. "Je suis le chef. Vous me comprenez?"
She was the leader, she was saying. The one Mischa had to answer to.
"Dis-le," Coralie said. Say it.
Mischa didn't answer. This bitch could call herself whatever she wanted, but that didn't mean she had to acknowledge it.
"Vous ferez tout ce que je dis," she said. You will do whatever I say.
Mischa didn't answer.
"Dis-le," Coralie insisted, but before Mischa could speak, the butt of her baton stabbed her stomach, whisking the wind from her. Mischa doubled forward, though of course she was physically unable to do so. The pipe scorched both wrists and she struggled to get back into positon. She couldn't stand much longer. Her legs were on the verge of collapse.
"Dis-le," Coralie said again. "You do----whatever I say."
It was a time before Mischa could recover her breath. Coralie gave her that time. She wanted to hear Mischa acknowledge her power over her. That was the point. Finally, Mischa got a good breath and cleared her throat, thinking about Rosalie's advice not to argue with the guards.
So she didn't argue with Coralie---she just spat in her face.
Coralie showed her disapproval with her nightstick, swinging the club into Mischa's left rib three times successively. It was all Mischa could take. The actress's legs gave out and her head fell backward. She was dangling from the thick pipe by her wrists, bloody now from the cuts made by the handcuffs and gravity. Coralie said something and another guard, with some effort, unlocked one cuff----dangling Mischa sideways----then the other, and she fell hard on her shoulder to the damp concrete.
"Quelqu'un at-il de vous donner la nourriture?" Coralie said to her.
Mischa shook her head. "Nobody---gave me----food," she managed.
"Vous voulez une nourriture?" she asked.
"Oui," said Mischa. She wanted food.
"Et une douche?"
"Oui." A shower, too.
Coralie called out to someone, something about food and a shower, and Mischa heard more footsteps. She raised her head and considered the possibility of lifting herself to a sitting positon. Her arms were useless and every inch of her body was in excruciating pain. No matter. Before Mischa could even get up on her elbows, she was forced down by a gush of liquid, dousing her hair and shirt.
It wasn't water. After a moment, she recognized the smell.
Soup. It was the chicken soup Mischa smelled this morning.343Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU6wX4gNVXN
"No!" she cried, as guards lifted her from either side, the handcuffs slapping over one bloody wrist, around the thick pipe, and then around the other. "No!"343Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡc1zLVLDgfy
"Bonne nuit, Barton," Coralie said to her. Good night.343Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNGiDigxaoI
Mischa's muscles were completely useless. She dangled from the pipe, the flies and mosquitoes and other assorted insects instantly recognizing the scent of her bloody wrists and the soup broth soaking her clothes and hair. Her protests echoed throughout the enclosure.343Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIOs3rc0kug
She was Mischa Barton, and she was in hell!343Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLny8inSUie
