Her legs give out.
A handler catches her, rights her, and pushes her forward.
She makes it to center stage and promptly bursts into tears.
Full, body-shaking sobs. The kind you can't stop even if you want to.
"Lot thirteen," the auctioneer says without inflection. "Nineteen years old. No special skills. Virgin. Starting bid: one hundred thousand dollars."
The crying doesn't stop. If anything, it gets worse.
The girl is sobbing so hard she can barely stand.
Her shoulders shake.
Her hands cover her face.
The audience shifts uncomfortably.
This isn't what they came for.
They want beautiful, compliant acquisitions.
Not sobbing teenagers who remind them this is actually human trafficking.
Only two paddles raise.
The bidding is perfunctory, almost embarrassing. Quick.
"One hundred and ten thousand."
"One hundred and twenty-five."
"One hundred and fifty thousand."
Silence.
"Going once. Going twice. Sold to bidder forty-one for one hundred and fifty thousand."
She sells for one hundred and fifty thousand—the lowest amount I've seen all night—to a man who doesn't even look at her when he wins.
Just raises his paddle, wins, and goes back to his phone.
They drag her off stage.
Literally drag her.
She's crying too hard to walk.
I wonder if she'll be punished for that.
For crying.
For making the buyers uncomfortable.
I wonder if I should cry too.
If making myself less appealing would drive my price down, make me less valuable, less wanted.
