She sways, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, then crumples to the wet pavement with a sickening thud.
I stagger back, a scream dying in my throat.
Then something sharp jabs into the side of my neck from behind.
Fire floods my veins fast and my knees give out instantly, the world tilting sideways as strong arms catch me before I hit the ground.
As darkness rushes in, swallowing the horror, a low, familiar male voice murmurs against my ear.
“Welcome back,flower.”
I’m shoved hard on the back, the force sending me stumbling until my knees crack against the wet floor.
Pain jolts up my legs, and before I can even catch my breath, the dustbag is yanked off my head.
Light floods in from the barred windows, searing against eyes starved of it for too long. I squint, disoriented and weak, as the rope around my wrists is pulled loose, leaving behind nothing but raw skin and a dull ache.
I’m suddenly yanked up by my upper arm, my weak legs barely holding me, but I move because there’s no other choice.
When I lift my head, though, something inside me shifts.
The room is broken-down, crumbling around me, cracked tiles hanging slack from the walls, grime seeping into every line.
But none of that holds me.
At the back of the small space, pressed against the wall, is a line of young women. Some huddle together, whimperingsoftly; others standing eerily still, eyes hollow and fixed on me with some kind of silent recognition.
Each face is different, each one carrying its own story, and it feels like I’ve gone back in time—to five years ago. Back when I was sold.
Before I can even piece anything together, I’m propelled forward, toppling toward them, my body colliding with theirs like I’m just another piece of cargo.
I turn sharply, swiping my black hair away from my eyes, a glare cutting through the man who pushed me, and he just smirks, two others flanking him.
But I don’t know any of their faces. I can hardly remember the moment I was taken, or how many days I’ve been gone.
It’s all just fragments of motion, darkness, and time blurred.
Then another man strides in, older and suited, and the gun hanging loose in his hand makes every woman in here whimper.
He stops in front of us, scanning, his gaze dragging over our bodies, over our faces, pondering and debating.
“Strip,” he orders flatly.
My brows knit as the girls glance at one another, hesitation rippling through them.
Bang!
I flinch as a gunshot tears through the room, and the woman beside me crumples instantly, her skull snapping back before she hits the ground with a loud thump.
Blood gushes from the hole in her forehead, spray flecking across my face.
“STRIP!” His loud voice booms through the screaming of women, thunderous, arrogant and bouncing off the walls. “All of it! Get it the fuck off!”
I don’t. I stand completely still.
But from the corner of my eye I can already see the other girls beside me tearing at themselves, stripping fast, their clothes and underwear hitting the filthy floor until they’re nothing but bare skin and arms crossing over whatever they can hide.
Maybe I’ve finally fucking gave up. Yeah, I must have. Because no sane person watches someone die for disobedience and then does the exact same thing.
