Along the wall there is a wooden display case filled with various objects: a bronze doll playing violin, a colorful elephant sculpture, and multiple picture frames. One of the frames has a naked woman in it. She is wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, so I’m unsure, but it looks like Eunyong. I realize there are about ten pictures of nude women—one curled up into a ball with her cleavage showing between her knees, another woman with disheveled hair with her hips high in the air. None of them look like models or porn stars. What the fuck? Manet’s Olympia innocently lying on her side, Gustav Courbet’s L’Origine du monde—her pink areola, her milk-colored belly button, her thick, black, mossy pubic hair—I could draw them with my eyes closed. I kept prints of the paintings in my desk drawer during high school. They’re unmistakable. Why did he put my favorite paintings alongside these photographs?

“I know you. I can pick out your scent even when you are several feet away from me. I knew we’d click the moment I saw you. It took longer than I thought, but today is the day. You want me, don’t you?”

I try to throw the beer he gave me at him. He grabs my wrist, and the glass merely falls over. He isn’t even alarmed at my outburst.

“Is that how it’s gonna be? Come on, I was being nice. With the expensive stuff I put in your drink, you should be feeling pretty good by now, no? You stupid bitch.” He slaps my face, tears the shirt off my chest, and bites into my breast.

“You fucking filthy animal! You filthy shit!” Trying to get away from him, I arch my back like a bow. I kick his head, my feet still in the sneakers.

“You bitch, it’s only gonna get more fun.” The asshole hits my face with his fist. Once. Twice. Three times. Again. Again. Blood from my nose sprays across the room. My lips feel ragged and torn. It doesn’t hurt, however. The fucker pushes his mouth onto mine, and quickly pulls down my jeans. His mouth travels down, stops at the pubic mound covered in underwear, and blows his warm breath onto it.

“Help! Is anyone there? Help!” I scream.

He reaches under the bed, pulls out a long scarf, and folds it neatly. He pushes it between my lips and ties a knot at the back of my head. He pulls out a rope and ties my arms behind me. He seems familiar with the process. He sniffs deeply into my underwear that somehow he has taken off of me. Sniff, sniff.

“Well then, it’s picture time.” He claps three times and walks away, cheerfully swinging his hands, and returns with a camera. It’s the same kind of Polaroid camera that I asked my father to get for my birthday.