Two Grand Tears

Sara got up from the bed with a heavy body, as if each of her bones weighed twice as much. The mattress creaked under her battered frame, a sound she no longer registered after months in that shitty hotel. It had been over a month since Carlos had her posing with a dildo between her legs, and the feeling of filth wouldn't wash away, not with showers, not with anything. The phone buzzed on the wobbly nightstand beside the bed; a message from Ramón: "Tomorrow you pay me or you're out, no more games." She rubbed her eyes, the dark circles etched like black pits, and looked at the crumpled bills she'd gotten from her last session with Carlos: five grimy dollars that didn't amount to jack shit. The rent was overdue again, two months this time, and though Ramón had "forgiven" her previous debt after raping and fucking her as he pleased, that didn't change the fact that she now owed him fresh: two thousand dollars, a grand per month, according to the figure that bastard charged for that dump.

She put on an old t-shirt and some torn jeans, the only ones that didn't reek of stale sweat. In the hotel kitchen, if you could call that corner with a rusty stove a kitchen, she checked the cupboard: a half-used can of beans and a pack of tortillas hard as rock. That was it. Hunger twisted her stomach, but there was nothing else. Her expenses were a fucking mess. On top of the thousand dollars for rent, she spent at least five bucks a day on cheap food—beans, rice, tortillas, whatever she could scrounge at the market—which added up to a hundred fifty dollars a month. Gas for cooking, between refills and use, ran her about two hundred bucks monthly. Gasoline for the borrowed truck she used to get to the café and Carlos's studio was five dollars a day. The phone line, to keep posting pics and replying to the assholes messaging her, cost fifty bucks a month, and the cable, which she barely watched because the room's TV kept cutting out, was another hundred. It all totaled fifteen hundred five dollars a month, and that didn't even include clothes, which she didn't buy because she couldn't afford a new pair of panties.

At the café, she earned something, but it wasn't enough. She worked eight hours a day, five days a week, at seven bucks an hour. That was fifty-six dollars a day, two hundred eighty a week, five hundred sixty every two weeks. A month, eleven hundred twenty dollars. Out of that, fifteen hundred five dollars went to fixed expenses, leaving her in the red before even touching the rent. Between what Carlos paid her—five or ten bucks a session, three times a week—and the café tips, she wasn't even close to covering the two thousand dollars she owed Ramón. Tips were a gamble: sometimes a hundred bucks a month if the customers felt generous, sometimes less. She'd never done anything shady for extra cash, never flashed her tits or let anyone grope her for a bigger bill, but the thought crept in every time an old creep winked at her while she handed over his coffee.

That morning, as she walked to the café with the sun scorching her neck, she thought about what Carlos had said last time: "A live video, twenty-five bucks, you touch yourself and that's it." The idea turned her stomach, but her eyes lit up thinking about those bills. She got to the café, tied on the grimy apron, and started waiting tables. A customer, some guy with a greasy mustache, left her a five-dollar tip and whispered, "Smile more, doll, and I'll double it tomorrow." Sara clenched her jaw, pocketed the bill, and kept working, but the comment stuck to her like gum on a shoe. By the end of her shift, she had thirty bucks in tips, and she shoved them in her pocket with shaky hands. It was nothing, but it was something.

Back at the hotel, the phone buzzed again. Carlos: "Today at six, special client, twenty-five bucks." Sara looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, face gaunt, eyes hollow. She thought of Ramón, the message, the two thousand dollars she didn't have. She pictured herself on the street, sleeping among dogs and trash, and fear gripped her chest. "Okay," she replied, and washed her face with cold water that stank of pipes. She walked to Carlos's studio, streets full of noise and shit, the hot air clinging to her skin. She stepped into the dump, the sofa reeking of sweat, the camera staring at her like a sick eye. Carlos was there, wiping his forehead with a greasy napkin. "Strip, sit there, touch yourself and talk to the guy on the webcam," he said, pointing at an old laptop. "How much you giving me?" she asked, voice hoarse. "Twenty-five, but I keep ten for the internet," he growled. Sara nodded, shed her clothes, and sat, legs trembling as the screen flickered on and an old fuck with a toad face stared at her from the other side.

"You're hot, touch yourself," the guy said, voice scratchy. Sara shut her eyes, slid her hand between her legs, and faked a moan, bile rising in her throat. Carlos stood behind, tweaking the camera, muttering, "Louder, let him hear you." She did it, fingers moving, body stiff, mind blank. The old man panted on the other end, and when he finished, the screen went dark. Carlos tossed fifteen bucks on the table. "Good job, more tomorrow if you want," he said, scratching his balls. Sara grabbed the cash, dressed, and left without looking back, legs weak, heartbeat thumping in her ears.

The next day, Ramón showed up at the hotel. Sara was counting the fifteen bucks on the bed when the bastard barged in without knocking, his sweaty shirt plastered to his skin. "Got my money?" he asked, eyes locked on her. Sara swallowed hard, pulled out the bills, and handed them over. "It's all I've got, give me more time," she mumbled. Ramón counted them, let out a dry laugh, and pocketed them. "This ain't even half, but I see you're making something, huh? Heard about your pics." She froze, air catching in her throat. "What pics?" she said, though she knew it was pointless. "Don't play dumb, saw you on some social media, slut. If you've got cash for that, you've got it for me. Give me something now or you're out today." Sara stayed still, panic crawling up her spine. "I don't have more," she whispered. Ramón stepped closer, grabbed her hair, and yanked her toward him. "Then you pay with your mouth," he snarled, unbuttoning his pants.

Sara wanted to scream, but nothing came out. She dropped to her knees, the cold floor biting into them, and shut her eyes as Ramón shoved his dick in her mouth. He groaned, gripping her head, and when he finished, he spat in her face and zipped up. "One more week, but I want two thousand next time," he said, and left. Sara wiped her face with her sleeve, ran to the bathroom, and puked, the taste of cum stuck to her tongue. She looked in the mirror, eyes red, face smeared, and hated herself for not fighting, not running, for still being alive in this shit.

That night, Carlos called again. "Fifty bucks, same guy, but he wants you to stick something in," he said, voice slimy. Sara sat on the bed, the fifteen bucks from before already spent on food and a ride. She thought of Ramón, the week he'd given her, the two thousand dollars she didn't have. "Okay," she answered, and the next day she was back at the studio, naked, dildo in hand. The old man watched her on the webcam, telling her to shove it in, to scream his name. She did, body aching, trying to think of anything else, while Carlos recorded it all. She got twenty-five after the bastard took his cut, and stumbled back to the hotel with the cash in her pocket.

Days later, Ramón returned. Sara was in the room, staring at the ceiling, when the guy walked in with a crooked grin. "A buddy sent me a video of you, slut, sticking a dildo in your cunt. Think you can do that and not give me anything?" He grabbed her arm, threw her to the floor, and kicked her in the ribs. "You owe two thousand, but now I want more." He hauled her up, ripped off her clothes, and fucked her against the wall, filming it on his phone while she sobbed. When he was done, he tossed the phone at her face. "I've got this now, don't pay and I'll show it to everyone." Sara stayed on the floor, body bruised, Ramón's video saved as another threat, while life kept dragging her deeper into a bottomless pit.