“Breakfast is here,” Beth says. “Green juice for breakfast, smoothie for lunch, and the same roasted chicken and green beans for dinner. Every day.”
A couple of girls head to the cart and grab their glasses, guzzle them, and drop the empty cups back on it.
Mercy walks over, dressed in newly pressed black pants and a tank top. “Breakfast is the one thing they don’t mess around with here,” she says, tugging at the hem of her top like she’s testing its fit.
Is she being sarcastic?
She flicks off one of the cameras in the corner, then nods toward the green juice. “Come on. You’ll figure out the rules fast enough.”
I hesitate. “Rules?”
She smirks, that tired kind of smile that says she’s already broken a few. “Yeah. Don’t ask too many questions, and don’t piss off the ones watching. Come on, let’s get you some food.”
I’m not hungry. I don’t want anything this “EV” has to offer. The fact that these girls are walking around here in a daze, functioning like this is the new normal,reallypisses me off.
I know they’re trying to help me cope. But I don’t want it.
Sliding back down, I shake my head and pull the covers over my head again. I must fall asleep for a while because I wake to the doors opening, and a firm but male voice yelling, “Get in there! Let’s go!”
When I roll over to look, my eyes widen. I scramble upright, heart thrashing wild against my ribs as I shove myself back and hit the slated metal headboard. My hand flies to my mouth to smother the sharp gasp that slips out. I pull my knees up to my chest, curling inward as a puff of rapid hot air coats my palm.
Oh my …
The door slams closed, and they parade down the center of the room like a silent wave. Girls in matching red lingerie stumble and blink against the harsh overhead lights. Their hair is snarled and messy. Makeup streams down their faces, with tears hardened on their cheeks. Their expressions are the worst part—vacant and unfocused. Eyes like cracked glass, with an emptiness full of fear and shame. One’s eyelashes flutter too fast. Another bites the inside of her cheek. They avoid the stares. In fact, they don’t look anywhere but down.
It’s not the lace, heels, or heavy makeup that makes my stomach drop. It’s the bruises. Dark rings clamp around some of their wrists, yellow and swollen. Others have finger-shapedsmudges along their necks. The girl in the front has a split lip. Another clutches her stomach like she’s ready to vomit at any moment.
I press my hand harder against my mouth as I stifle a choked sob.
Mercy, who seems to be the mother hen, checks in with each girl. Their eyes are hollow. Like their whole person has been shattered.
“It’s like this when we come back. Depressing. It really is best if you don’t, you know … resist,” Beth says, patting my knee.
I sit frozen, my breath caught in my throat. Fury sparks beneath my skin. This is insane. Many of the girls stop at their beds and grab the freshly washed outfits from the foot of them, but as they do, I follow one girl. She’s doe-eyed for sure and quiet, but she doesn’t have any marks on her. In fact, her face is clean, like she washed it and … Does she look showered already?
I can’t move. Can’t speak.
Beth follows my stare and sighs. “That’s Sarah. She was the new girl last week. Her first Market was last night.”
I finally take my hand from my mouth and lick the salty tears from around my lips. “She looks?—”
“Fine?” One of the girls takes a detour on her way to the showers and stands at the end of my bed, hands on her hips. Splotchy welts decorate her stomach, the baseball-sized circles already a deep purple. I wonder what made that large bruise, before I think better of wanting to know.
I blink up at her. Her blonde hair is long and wavy, beach waves now tousled into matted strands. Blue eyes stare at me. Her brows lift with a slow, exaggerated blink, heavy with mascara. She seems annoyed with me.
“You must be new,” she says. “I’m Juliette.”
“Thea. How is she fine?”
She smirks, but Beth speaks up. “It’s because of who bid on her, she?—”
“Beth!” Juliette snaps. “What the hell?” She gestures toward the cameras, then gives me a tight-lipped smirk. “Each man offers a different experience.”
I scoff and shake my head.
Juliette tilts her head to study me. “You’re pretty. Still in denial about your circumstances, huh?”
“You mean this sick, twisted delusion. Umm … yeah.”
