“Next one, call me first. I’m not a fan of sloppy seconds or thirds.”
“Of course, sir. I told her to wash, but if you’d rather not—”
“Wendy, you know me better than that. I like them tight. Next time, call me first.”
“I will. We have more coming in a few days; one of our people in St. Louis said he has three targeted.”
“Let me know when they arrive. Maybe I’ll throw a party.”
More.
Party.
Breaking.
As I now sat in the same filthy dress and imagined that others would endure what I had, I was thankful it wasn’t me. That realization confirmed their success. I was breaking or maybe broken.
I wasn’t sure.
Did the broken continue to fight?
A sob came from my chest as I hugged my legs tighter, my hand going to my stomach.
It was confirmed. I was carrying a baby—Patrick’s and my baby—and it was to be sold as I had been.
I yearned to fight, flee, and get back to Patrick.
What must he be thinking?
I’d lived on the streets. I had experience. What I didn’t have was opportunity—none of us did.
All of us stilled whenever the door to the hallway opened. The woman who appeared from the other side was Miss Warner. I didn’t know if that was her real name. Reality didn’t matter in this world. Miss Warner was how she was to be addressed. When she called your name, you were wanted upstairs. The appropriate response was ‘Yes, Ms. Warner. Thank you, Ms. Warner.’
Inappropriate responses were met with force.
The punishments weren’t completely wielded by her though she was quick with her crop.
“Walk faster, girl.”
“Show your appreciation for this reward.”
Each instruction came with a swift swat to a leg or arm.
That wasn’t the same as punishments for misbehaving. For those, she had two large men who willingly obliged with belts and paddles. From what I’d heard, she enjoyed watching.
Though we weren’t allowed to speak to one another, like mice hiding in the cellar, we whispered and at times, huddled close together for heat. Such as a children’s game of telephone, there was no way of knowing if the retold stories were accurate or enhanced.
The positive aspect at hearing one’s name called was that after the customer was done, we’d receive food. If my name wasn’t called, food didn’t appear. Three times a day water was delivered. If only I’d kept track of the water, I might know how long I’d been here. While I would have liked to use it to wash, I couldn’t not drink it. Along with hunger came thirst. The bottles weren’t new. After we were done, they were collected in an old milk crate, refilled and brought back. The water wasn’t always cold, but it was wet, a valuable commodity. Not returning a bottle was a punishable offense.
Considering the squalor, the cell was kept neat.
The responsibility of carrying the bucket up the stairs alternated between girls. It was the only non-sex job that received an edible reward. Though admittedly, it was difficult to maintain an appetite when faced with the contents. Nevertheless, food was food.
There was a strange contradictory sense of wanting and not wanting to be requested. I wasn’t certain how the men knew to request us.
Did they say give me a blonde or maybe a brunette?
Did they have pictures of us and descriptions?
Was it like going to a restaurant and we were on the menu?
No one knew.
Each door that I’d seen within this building had a key lock. The door out of this room led to a concrete staircase—again no windows, no means to escape. The door at the top of the staircase led to a hallway with four locked doors. Over the time I’d been here, I’d only been led into two of the rooms.
That wasn’t to say I’d only been upstairs twice. In reality, I’d lost count of my number of visits up the stairs. It was my observation that an assigned room didn’t matter. The two I’d been in were exactly the same—four walls with no windows, containing a mattress upon a frame with one sheet and a chair.
Once led to the room, Miss Warner would instruct us to strip and determine the position we were to lie in upon the bed. The next instruction was to wait.
Could it be possible that the wait was the worst time?
So many questions came to mind as I waited for the door to open.
Who would enter?
What would they do?
Would it hurt?
Would I bleed?
I always did with anal.
I didn’t know if that was normal or if I’d never had time to heal after the first night.
Would the customer be satisfied?
Would I be fed?
In the basement, I’d heard whispered stories about violence for no other reason than to inflict it. In the stories it wasn’t punishment, but something the customer enjoyed. Until the first night, I’d never imagined such a thing.
Did it make me lucky that the only time that happened was the first night?
Was I a quick learner, easily broken, or simply complacent?
On each trip up the stairs, I considered the notion of fighting and fleeing.
And then my next thought was of the baby within me.
Round after round of unprotected sex hadn’t caused me to miscarry.
What would happen if I tried to escape and was punished? What if I was hit or kicked in my stomach?
I wanted to believe it wouldn’t be allowed to happen. After all, these people wanted to sell my child; however, I refused to have faith in their plans.
“How far along are you?” a blonde girl asked in a whisper as she sat beside me.
In the dimness I noticed the stringiness of her hair and the tears in her ragged dress.
Were we all bought dresses for our sale?
Her question took me out of my thoughts.
“I’m pregnant, but I don’t know how far for sure.”
“Me too,” she said.
It was difficult to see in the dimness. “Are you showing?” I asked.
“Yeah. Some of them upstairs like that. How about you?”
“Not very much.”
“Oh, once you do, your name will be called more often. Sick bastards like the idea of screwing a pregnant woman. I don’t know why. Some mommy fantasy I guess. At least it results in food. I’m always hungry.”
“Yeah, me too.” My skin peppered with goose bumps. “How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know.”
The common answer led to the hopelessness of our situation. I squeezed my legs tighter against my chest. “I’m Maddie and I’m always scared.” It was a brave confession and true.
She reached toward me. I flinched.
My mind told me this was a friend and confidant. My body recoiled at any contact.
She sighed. “We all are. I heard Miss Warner a few days—or hell, weeks ago—saying that everyone here is pregnant. It’s easier she said. No periods. No need for condoms. We can work for them every day and night without exception.”
“I don’t even know if it’s day or night.”
“I saw a customer’s watch once. I didn’t know if it was a.m. or p.m., but I tried to keep track. It didn’t last long. I doubt anyone in here knows.”
Sighing, I laid my head back. “I hate it. Their hands on me, their bad breath, and the way they smell.” I turned to her, keeping my voice low. “The way I smell.”