Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
The other girl with lacklustre red hair tripped backward, her mouth parting in a silent wail.
As if they didn’t know? As if they’d spent the same amount of time as I had locked and alone and didn’t see something like this coming. Perhaps, I’d read too many dark books or watched too many crime shows on television. Either way, I wasn’t stupid, and I definitely wasn’t naïve anymore.
Just like I would never go to university to finish my psychology degree, these girls would never return to their lives. Unlike me, who blamed her mother for her mess, they might blame a bad boyfriend or idiotic decision of drinking too much and trusting the wrong person.
No matter what led us here, we were on the same journey. Just with different destinations, determined by whoever bought us.
Turning away from the tears and laughing captors, I stripped from my shorts and t-shirt, placed my precious toilet paper words on the counter, and walked straight into a shower. There were no blinds or screens. My nakedness remained on display as I turned on body temperature water and squirted un-scented shampoo into my hair.
Being nude in front of strangers would’ve petrified me a month ago.
Now, I no longer put stock in such things because I had no control over who looked or touched or ultimately raped and destroyed.
Don’t think about that.
Gritting my teeth, I lathered shampoo into bubbles. No aroma or comfort came from the soap. I missed my watermelon body scrub and raspberry lip-gloss. I hankered for fizzy drinks and a soft fleece blanket after a long day of studying.
What I wouldn’t give to smell again. Hear again. Feel again.
While the other girls mourned their lives and feared their future, I welcomed relief. I was glad this stage was over. Another hour in that room would’ve driven me completely mad. At least this way, I had something to do, someone to challenge, someplace else to go.
And who knows, maybe I’ll find a way to escape.
The noise of the shower as I held my head under its stream blocked all sounds. I kept my eyes closed while lathering my hair and didn’t turn until I’d washed, used the razor provided to shave, and wrapped yet another threadbare towel around myself.
The men and their masks had gone, and the women had copied me, each taking a stall and dutifully but tearfully washing.
This wasn’t a simple cleansing or preparation.
This was a baptism into Hell.
TO NO ONE,
My mother always told me that bullies are people, too.
She warned me never to judge first impressions or be superficial like others. She said it wasn’t my place to critique—not knowing if they were hurting or living a terrible life while picking on others.
Well, I would disagree based on my current predicament, but then again, these men aren’t bullies, they’re monsters. So I guess my mother’s rule is safe.
Don’t judge. Listen.
She promised me it would keep me in good stead, and I’d make friends, not enemies. What she didn’t tell me was nobody liked to be watched like a specimen, and everyone hated a compassionate know-it-all.
And that was why I was targeted.
Or at least…I believe it was.
You see, No One, it all started as a normal evening. I dressed in my bedroom opposite my mother’s. I slipped into the low heels she’d chosen, into the off-the-shoulder gown she’d selected, and hopped into the taxi she’d arranged.
I was thankful to be included because normally I wasn’t.
I was proud of my mother. Respectful, wary…but not adoring. She loved me but didn’t have time for silly children, even if that silly child was her own. She made sure I was old and wise so I could fend for myself while she dealt with adult bullies on a daily basis. She sold her services to the State to ease the burdens of psychopaths and paedophiles.
She treated us all like guinea pigs, wanting into our minds—asking why I did something instead of reprimanding. Demanding articulated words rather than messy displays of emotion.
My friends called me crazy for trusting my mother’s guidance. But I was a good girl, a kind daughter, a child guided by a woman who earned her living by lifting the veil in which humans hide. She made me believe I had the same magic, and it was my duty to help those without such a gift.
She made me what I was.
I suppose I have to be grateful for that because, without her strict upbringing, I would be like the girls snivelling even now in the corner while we wait to be collected for whatever comes next. I’m thankful to the woman who birthed me for giving me these life skills, but it doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive her.
From the hours of 9:00 p.m. to midnight, I was safe. I mingled with suits and entertained in whispers, representing my mother and her business with the poise she demanded.