by Ella Miles
I stand up. “How long until the event?”
“Three hours.”
I nod. “We better get ready then.”
“Excellent.” Oscar starts gabbing about everything still to be done. I barely listen, though. All I can think about is Siren. About how she saved my life. And now, I have to save hers.
5
Siren
I hate silence. But I hate the sound of sniffling even more. It’s like someone is stabbing my ears with knives. That’s the reaction I feel every time I hear a sniffle, a cough, a muffled cry. Not because I care or have a heart for the other women who are captured with me. I do, of course, have a heart. I want them all to find their way out of this mess the same as me. But right now, I can’t think about escaping because my brain is consumed with sniffle, drip, sniffle, cough.
Fuck, I grab my ears with my hands trying to get the sounds to stop, trying to get the anxiety building in my chest to dissipate. But it only grows. There is a name for my condition—misophonia. It means normal, ordinary sounds cause a visceral reaction in my body. Usually, I can avoid the sounds. If someone is slurping too loudly at a coffee shop, I can leave. If my friend is chewing too loudly at dinner, I can talk over the noise. If someone is sneezing on the bus, I can play music louder in my earbuds.
But I can’t do any of those things right now. I’m stuck in a cage with a dozen terrified women. A hundred more are tied up nearby. All of them releasing a cacophony of various noises in the otherwise silent room. No one dares to talk, too afraid they will become the first victim to be beaten, raped, or sold.
None of them understand it doesn’t matter if we are the first or the last; we all face the same fate. We are all about to be sold like cattle. We have all lost our dignity, our human right to freedom. We are now property.
Deep breath in and then out, I practice my calming technique, and I feel the anxiety lower an inch from my throat to my chest. Most people think anxiety is all in your head; it isn’t. It takes over everything in your body. Your stomach aches, your chest pounds unable to catch a breath, your throat closes up, your mouth runs dry, and even your bones throb from the anxiety. Relieving a single one of those pains is a success in my book.
“What do you think is going to happen?” the woman to my right whispers into my ear. She’s dressed in a gray suit, with a white blouse underneath. Her blouse is now covered in dirt, her mascara is running down her face, and her hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week. I would guess a week ago she was a high-powered lawyer or businesswoman—now she’s nothing but tears. But she is strong enough to ask me a question in the silence even though there are guards watching us. I admire her bravery.
“They are going to sell us,” I say flatly, not sugarcoating our outcome.
The woman grips her neck, as if she can’t believe her fate.
“For what purpose?” her voice is weaker now.
I blink rapidly, looking at her. She can’t be serious? Does she not realize there is only one reason to sell another human being? Money. These men want money. And the men who are buying us want power. They want to control us, live out their sick fantasies, rape us, torture us, and, the kind ones, kill us.
But I see her trembling hand; I see the tears welling up in her eyes, the way she bites her bottom lip. She’s about to break out into an uncontrollable sob. That’s a sound that will rip right through my body and bring back every drop of anxiety I was feeling.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Alice.”
She doesn’t ask for mine. She’s too focused on her own fate to see that she isn’t the only woman who is about to face the same outcome.
“Okay, Alice. Are you married?”
She shakes her head.
“Have a boyfriend?”
Again she shakes her head no.
“Kids?”
No—she was probably too focused on her work to date. She seems like a smart, ambitious, gorgeous woman in her late twenties. She probably never bothered to date. Now, I’m sure she wishes she did. Then maybe she’d have that love to focus on. That strength to pull her through this. That hope that her man would come and save her. That fairytale that love conquers all, that it ultimately wins.
I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” She asks.
“Sorry,” I say, thinking about how love only makes you weaker, not stronger. By not falling in love, this woman proved her ultimate superpower. She is strong enough to handle anything on her own.
I grip her shoulders and look her straight in the eyes. “Alice, you are strong. You have not only survived these last twenty plus years without a man, but you have thrived. You have become a fierce, badass woman. No matter what happens, you lived a great life. And you are strong enough to handle whatever is coming your way. Remember that.”
My words are meant to be a pep talk, but it seems to have the opposite effect on Alice, who bursts into tears. A domino effect of emotional distress rips through the group until the entire room is crying, sniffling, sucking in tears—all the things I hate.
Dammit.
Sighing, I bring my knees up to my chest and my long brown hair around my ears, trying my best to tune them all out.
“Stop that racket, you stupid whores!” a guard yells, pounding his gun against the bars.
The room instantly falls silent, and I find myself liking the guard a bit more for making the room go silent again. How fucked up is that?
Our cell door is opened, and three guards enter the small cage holding me and eleven other women. We are all handcuffed at the hands and feet, but I don’t think the cuffs are needed for most of the women. They are all too terrified to run or fight. They’ve already accepted their fate.
The guards start grabbing women up off the floor until they are on their shaky feet. I refuse to be pulled up by my hair or arms, so I stand before a guard can get to me. I will not be afraid—I refuse. As long as I don’t say that I’m scared, I won’t be. I can’t lie to myself and say that I’m happy or unafraid. Deep down there is some fear, but as long as I can’t focus on it, then I’m not lying or telling the truth. I’m just focusing on other things.
A guard reaches me, seeing me standing eye to eye to him. I’m tall, even without heels.
“Are you going to be a problem?” he asks, eyeing me before uncuffing my ankles.
I raise an eyebrow. “Only if you try to hurt me.”
He huffs and then grabs my arm roughly. I fight, trying to pull my arm free as I kick at his legs.
He shakes me; I fight harder.
He stops, I stop.
He sighs. “Fine, we will do this your way. I’ve dealt with your type before, and I’d like to have children someday.”
I grin when he releases my arm. I’m the only woman left in the room. He correctly guessed that I would kick him in the balls if he manhandled me too much.
“This way,” he points to the exit of the cage.
I start walking untouched.
He verbally commands me to walk down the hallway to a small room where three women wait for me.
I spot a chair in the center that’s meant to glamorize me—make me look like a woman again instead of a gaunt invalid that hasn’t been fed in a week.
“Sit,” the man says.
I sit, knowing he is the least of my worries.
“I’ll be right outside the door. Don’t give them any trouble, or I’ll break your wrist.”
“You can’t do that. I doubt the men who are waiting for us want to buy broken women.”
He frowns. “That’s why I said wrist instead of foot or nose. The men won’t be able to tell your wrist is broken. The swelling won’t happen until after you’ve already been sold, and by then, we can just say they were the ones who broke it.”
With that, he walks out, slamming the door.
The three women all put their heads down, none of them looking me in the eyes as they begin to work on my hair, face, and nails.
“Why do you wo
rk for these men?” I ask.
None of them answer me.
Two of the women murmur something low and quiet to each other. It’s then that I realize they don’t speak English. Two of the women look Hispanic. One of the women is black and doesn’t chat with the other two. I look like a mix of the three women.
My skin is tan in an exotic way. I don’t know the nationality of my birth parents, but I would guess I’m a mix of several ethnicities. My adoptive parents always treated me as if I were a bad person for having an unknown origin. My culture is a strength—I am a mix of everything and hence know more of the world because of it.
The women chat again.
“Why do you work for these men?” I ask in Spanish.
All of the women freeze but don’t answer me. They heard and understood what I said, though.
So I try again. “Help me. Or at least help them,” I say in Spanish.
Nothing.
One woman files my fingers harder until I’m not sure I’ll have a fingernail left.
I sigh.
“They won’t answer you,” the third woman says.
“Why not?” I ask, looking into her eyes. She meets my gaze, and I realize she’s old enough to be my grandmother. The other two women are closer to my age.
“Because they are afraid. Everyone is afraid. They risk facing the same fate as you if they help you.”
I look at the two beautiful women working on my hair and nails. They aren’t wearing any makeup, they wear their hair back in buns, trying to hide their beauty.
“The only reason they aren’t sold is that they can do hair and makeup.”
I nod. “And you? Will you help?”
The older woman grabs my hand and places it between her two hands, trying to comfort me. It works, my insides warm a little at the touch.
“Do I look like I’m strong enough to be able to help you escape?”
I sigh.
“I can’t help you or any of the other women escape. But I can offer you words.”
I nod for her to speak, even though I don’t think words are going to be able to help me right now.
“Give them hell.”
Three little words—give them hell.
I scrunch my nose, and she laughs.
“I see how much fighting spirit you have inside you—use it. The ones who last—the ones who make the men fall in love with them are the ones who eventually gain control. They become the masters.
“You have what it takes. You will not only survive, but you will become powerful. You will rule. You will have the ability to one day put an end to this. So give them hell.”
Give them hell.
I nod. That, I can do.
She smiles at my reaction and then gets back to work at plucking my eyebrows.
The rest of my time with the women is silent as they work. They paint my nails, curl my mud-brown hair, decorate my face in makeup, and wax off every piece of body hair. Then they leave me alone with a rack of lingerie and a robe.
They didn’t have to tell me what to do, I already know. Pick out the piece of lingerie to wear on stage.
I don’t want to wear any lingerie.
But the guard’s words haunt me. If I go for more money, I will be better taken care of. I’ll be more valuable. So I need to choose what I wear carefully.
I look over the garments. Most are white—innocent.
I laugh, I’m not innocent. I’m not an angel. Those were the words I said to Zeke. I’m not an angel. But neither is he—the bastard. I saved his life, and he repaid that debt by being an even bigger schmuck than I thought possible.
Fuck him.
Fuck them all.
Give them hell.
I grin when I find the last garment on the end of the rack. I put it on and stare at myself in the mirror before I put the robe on, covering my body.
Just as I finish veiling myself with the robe, the guard opens the door without knocking.
“Time to go back to your cage,” he says.
I stand taller than him now in my heels, and the lustful look on his face as he takes in my appearance tells me that even with the robe on, I would go for a lot of money. But once I take the robe off, my price will skyrocket.
He clears his throat and holds the door open for me. I brush past him as I strut.
And I hear him curse under his breath. I smirk, feeling powerful.
He may not be able or willing to save me. But someday, I’m going to find a man who can—a man who is willing to risk everything for me. Then I will have all the power.
I walk back to the cage where the other eleven women sit. This time, none of us are handcuffed. We are all wearing robes covering the intimate pieces of our bodies that will eventually be exposed. Every woman’s hair is styled, her face painted. Each looks a little different. Some look like innocent angels; the youngest woman even has pigtails to make her look younger. A couple of the women have dark red lips to make them look older and more mature. But all of the women look more terrified instead of determined.
The apparent man in charge enters the cage with two of the guards. One of the guards has a notebook and pen in his hand. The boss takes his time walking around the cage, studying each of us like he’s trying to determine how much we should go for.
I want to stick my foot out and try to trip him, but I resist the urge as he starts pointing to women and assigning each a random number. I realize he’s deciding the order in which we will be trotted out on stage. He’s starting with the women he thinks will go for the least and ending on the most expensive.
He hasn’t pointed to me yet. Maybe because he’s forgotten I exist as he walks around the circle.
I swear my foot sticks out on its own accord. Next thing I know, he stumbles over the heel of my foot.
I pull it back to my body quickly. I’m afraid, but knowing if I’m punished, it will be minimal. They don’t want to damage me right before the show.
The man squats down in front of me, looking me in the eye. I think he’s going to yell at me. Punch me. Make me feel some pain for tripping him.
Instead, he grins crookedly, a toothpick sliding out between his yellow teeth.
“Twenty,” he says, looking at me. “She will easily go for five mill. Maybe more, she has a fight to her the men can’t resist. They will all want to be the one to break her.”
Five million dollars, holy hell.
Maybe the advice the woman gave me was bad? If I give them too much hell, then they will want to break me.
The man walks out and through a door to what I realize is a stage.
I can hear the sound of music playing in the next room. The show is about to start. And I can practically feel every heart in the room speed up at the sound.
A few minutes later, one of the guards is dragging out the woman labeled number one. She’s one of the youngest. I would guess seventeen or eighteen. She’s still a baby in many ways. And she’s about to be thrust on stage and sold.
The guard pushes her out and leaves the door to the stage open so we can all see to the stage. I don’t know if it’s meant to intimidate or encourage us to be able to see how the previous women are treated. But the first woman stands in the middle of the stage, gripping her robe nervously as men yell out numbers in the crowd.
After a few minutes of her being on stage, the man in charge asks her to disrobe. But she only grips it tighter.
He snaps his fingers, and two of the guards rip the robe from her body. She crumbles to the floor in tears, trying her best to cover her almost naked body.
All of the women in the cage turn away, looking away from her humiliation.
One by one, each woman is dragged to the stage and faces the same fate. Most sell for between one and three million. Each is forced to disrobe. Each is humiliated and frightened beyond possibility.
But I won’t be. Give. Them. Hell.
I plan to.
The guards outside the cage start drinking, enjoying the fun and amount of money their
boss is making, which will obviously trickle down to them.
And then I’m the only woman left in the cage.
My heart speeds uncontrollably as I prepare for my turn. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but I won’t cower. I won’t let them have my power.
Finally, the man who has been my guard walks to the entrance of the cage. He motions for me as I stand.
“Your turn.” His eyes light as he says it, as if he wishes he had enough money to bid on me.
“Give me a shot of tequila.”
“What? No.”
“I’ll go for more than double any other woman here if you give me a shot. You can tell your boss it was because of the shot of liquid courage that helped me to perform. You will have gotten your boss more money and maybe a new strategy to help future women.”
He frowns but hands me a shot glass. He grabs a bottle as all eyes of the other guards focus in on us. He pours the tequila into the shot glass and fills it to the rim.
“You owe me, and don’t worry. I plan to collect on my debt,” he says, threatening me.
But I won’t be threatened. He can’t hurt me. No man can. I know what it’s like to be betrayed by a man. And the only way a man can hurt me anymore is if I give them my heart—something I will never do again.
I throw the shot back into my mouth.
I feel the warm liquid trickle down my throat and warm my stomach.
It’s my last moment of happiness, the last moment that is truly mine before I walk on the stage.
I hand the shot glass back to my guard, and then I strut up the stairs to the stage. I’ll give them hell alright. The men will wish they never captured me.
Because I’m about to tap into my power tonight. I may not win the fight, but by the time I’m through with them, I will drain them all of their power.
Even if it’s the last thing I do.
6
Zeke
This is my nightmare.
Men are sitting at small circular tables scattered throughout a dark floor. Each table can sit three men max, but only a couple are filled. Most men are sitting by themselves with a phone in one hand, a drink in the other, and cigar puffing out of their mouths.
