Sarah/Anya
Walking down the catwalk, there is this poor little girl. She carries terror in her eyes, clearly visible from my angle. I can see the way her lips are shaking, and her teeth are grinding. Her dark hair is pulled back, and her fingers are full of golden, extravagant rings.
It is disturbing to see all the stoic faces observing the show like they are watching their favorite TV show. There are women in the audience, too. How can they watch and not feel their guts twisting inside, like what’s happening to me right now?
I know the answer all too well. These types of people surrounding the catwalk are shrouded in darkness and as such they have no scruples. No soul. And though my life experiences taught me human beings are despicable, I am still surprised.
Once the girl reaches the end of the catwalk, she takes three steps backwards and then turns her back on the audience, standing next to Wasim. A hand raises among the people in the back of the audience, Wasim quickly points it out and gives the customer permission to speak.
“Caste?” a male voice asks, Wasim answers quickly.
“Kshatríya.”
What the hell are they talking about? After a second, the man raises his sign again, placing a bid to buy it.
“I’ve got an offer from the gentleman back there. Anybody else willing to push for this parcel? Nobody? Come on, folks! Going once, twice…Sold! To the gentleman in the back,” shouts Kaled, everything and everyone remains anonymous.
I’m gonna throw up.
A frightened little girl was just sold to an obscure, old pervert in less than fifteen seconds.
Somebody wake me up from this nightmare.
I can’t even react to my feelings when I see several women walking down the catwalk. Some look proud, some are crying, I guess the show must go on.
A man appeared and sold almost immediately to a woman with a plastic face like I’ve never seen before. Her cheekbones are unnaturally shaped, her lips look like two pieces of flesh sagging and barely attached, and her eyes are so wide open that it seems she has no eyelids.
After a few minutes of silence, Wasim says,
“Male, seven years old, American, virgin.”
Time suddenly stopped for me.
A cold feeling goes right through me like a winter chill.
My perplexed eyes dart to the boy, he’s only wearing a pair of black pants, his little torso fully exposed.
“How are you not freaking out right now!?”Life claims
What the fuck is this?!
“Oh, that’s more like it!”
He’s crying inconsolably, he’s twisting and squeezing his little fingers in front of him, in fear and anxiety.
It takes every ounce of my willpower to not jump on the catwalk and take him away from all these motherfuckers.
I can’t even show a glimpse of shame to it, I know too damned well Bruno will scold me if I do. He warned me this could happen, and yet I wasn’t able to fully prepare for this. I can feel his strong legs tighten hard against my shoulders. Not sure if he’s reacting to it or anticipating that I could.
I secretly study Bruno, his dilated nostrils, swollen forehead vein and brows snapped together. This tells me he is, in fact, as much enraged as I am.
Unconsciously he pulls my leash, making breathing an impossible task for me and doesn’t let go.
If I don't do something soon, I could pass out any minute.
I try to move his legs, to get him out of that dark place he's got himself in, but he ignores my efforts, like I'm not there, it’s just him and this scared little boy.
The leash keeps squeezing my neck.
