I was rolled off of the stage and thrown into this tiny damp room somewhere in the back corridors of Martin shirt. There was only a dim lightbulb, barely illuminating the small room with concrete walls, floor, and ceiling. Water dripped down from the ceiling, I felt it hitting my back as I laid there. Slowly I slid myself over to the wall and sat against it, my eyes trained on the door. Awaiting whatever fate was going to be looming for me outside this tiny room.
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I already know all about you, Naomi Straya. You’re a heroin-addicted gun for Martin shirt. That you find men reprehensible. That the first person you killed was a man who paid your mother to have sex with you. That you have a penchant for writing poetry and that you tried to commit suicide eight separate times the same way, yet never followed through with it. And that the woman you loved overdosed in your apartment bathtub two months ago. Every detail of your life, from the last meal you ate to how you got all those injuries, I know.”