A slightly upturned nose. Dark freckles over mocha skin. Doe-like eyes the color of honey. Large lips with a distinct cupid's bow. Brown mascara, eyebrow pencil, and hair dye to hide the golden sheen of my hair. Baggy sweatshirt that looks like a guy's to hide my figure and make people think I have a boyfriend. Loose jeans that won't hug my fat ass. Dingy backpack and beat up sneakers with a hole in the toe to make me look too poor to steal from.
Looks like I'm ready. There's no way to hide that I'm a girl. My breasts and hips are too big to hide well even in this baggy ensemble, but at least I shouldn't draw attention to myself. The last thing I need is more attention from the male population.
I look away from the mirror and pull my hood up before hefting the backpack on my shoulders. I give the small attic bedroom that's been my home for the past two years a parting glance and then slowly make my way down the ladder. The garage is lightless except for a thin stream coming out from the slightly bent second pane, but I can see just fine. I don't need light to see, after all.
I made sure the door to the backyard had its hinges oiled yesterday, so the only noise I make is the slight click of the lock disengaging. I'll have to leave it unlocked, but the likelihood someone will use it to break and enter is low in this neighborhood. I start down the sidewalk with my head bowed, silently counting the number of streetlights I pass under.
These foster parents were okay. I will give them credit, they did try. But even Mr. and Mrs. Karen's niceness wasn't enough. I don't fit in. I don't know where I will fit in, but this lovely suburbia isn't it. They'll miss me when they wake, but the letter I left and the fact that today is my eighteenth birthday should be enough to keep them from following me. Or filing a missing person's report.
I have custody of myself now. It feels good. I can make my own decisions. I can finally support myself. The Karen's insisted I didn't need a job because they'd take care of me, but I've managed to save up enough from odds and ends for the bus ticket and maybe a night or two at a shitty hotel.
The bus stop ahead isn't very well lit and like everything else at this time of day, utterly deserted. I find the most comfortable bench and sit, staring up at the patch of sky above me. The lights drown out any stars, and the color is still the ceilingless black of nighttime.
"So, where are you going?" a voice asks.
My ass hurts from the small jump, and I whip my head to the side to look at the man sitting next to me on the bench. I didn't hear him walk over, and a shiver goes down my spine as I meet cold, blue eyes. He looks somewhat like a weasel, and I know you should never judge a book by its cover, but he seems untrustworthy.
"Nowhere noteworthy," I reply with a shrug. "You?"
I don't want to have a conversation, but it's best not to antagonize this type of person.
"Same," he answers with a grin that reveals he's missing at least one tooth.
An arm wraps around my torso, pinning my arms to my side, and a foul-smelling rag is pressed against my face. I try to kick free in surprise, but the weasel leaps at me, holding my legs down.
"Just breathe, girly."
My head starts swimming, my vision swirling. I cough and gag at the flavor invading my mouth and nostrils, but I can't fight two men and this chemical.
--
Pain. Voices. Rumbling engine. Itchy skin.
I'm in a car? There are moans around me, and something sharp like an elbow digs into my back. I can't breathe. There are people crowded around me.
I can't see. My mouth tastes horrid. I can't move. I'm restrained?
Human trafficking. Funny, it never seemed like that big of a deal.
The world fades back to black.
--
Cold shocks through me. I try to scramble up, but my arms are held above my head, and I'm leaning on a wall, already standing. I shake the water off my face and try to open my eyes and move around, only to find my ankles cuffed to the wall as well.
Everything hurts. My shoulders especially. I place my weight better on my feet and stand up straight, the movement cluing me into the fact that I'm naked. I peer around with my eyes mostly closed. There's no light, but the weasel man and another man who must be his partner are walking around like they can see.
There are moans, groans, and cries all around me. Along the wall across from me I can see naked women strung up like I am. They must be on either side of me, too. The men are waking the ones still asleep like they did me, dousing them in cold water. My eyes may be playing tricks on me, but I think the men have wings.
Well. Human trafficking wasn't my idea of a new beginning, but here I am. I'm glad I shaved. Not that I care what a potential buyer, or whatever, would think about me, but I learned a while ago that having golden blonde hair with my skin color is too outstanding.
My jaw hurts. Oh. There's a gag. That makes sense, actually. The girls across from me are gagged, too. I stretch my jaw as much as I can around the oblong shape of it and discreetly watch the men and their wings. Maybe the wings are some sort of symbol of some kind? Like, only if you're wearing fake wings can you participate in buying these girls?
But that doesn't make sense, since the wings are so big. Both are taller than the men that sport them, and when I get a glimpse of their chests, they don't look to be wearing straps. Or shirts. This is probably some weird drug hallucination. Maybe I really was drugged and now I'm high. I don't feel high. I tried pot once. But they wouldn't use pot.
I'm confusing myself.
There's a thing on my stomach. Black paint in the shape of a V. A few of the girls across from me have it, too, but most don't. Virgins? I know I am, but it could mean something else. Claimed by a guy with a V as his first initial? And now that I'm looking, there are numbers above each girl across from me. Okay. Great.
The girl to my left is sobbing. Somewhere in here, someone is screaming their head off past the gag. I watch one of the men walk over and out of my sight, and then there's a "smack" that sets the screamer into hysterical sobs. What's really eerie is that neither man has said a word. If I couldn't see, it'd be scary as hell. There are footsteps and sobs and groans and whimpers, but no physical contact other than the ice water dripping down my body, the chains holding my hands up, and the metal cuffs on my ankles.
I shouldn't be able to see. The girls across from me are staring with wide, unfocused eyes, trying and failing to see anything. The splashing of water stops, and then the man who isn't the weasel speaks loud and clear, his voice commanding.
"They're ready."
There's a loud booming noise that makes me cringe and other girls scream. More sobs sound, and there are distinctly more footsteps too. I keep my eyes mostly closed and head tilted back so I can see through my eyelashes. There are voices, now, too. All male, seeming to discuss the women hanging from the walls.
The first to come into my view also has wings. His are darker than the two who brought at least me here, and he's also shirtless. Slowly, more come into view. All have wings, all are shirtless, and all are wearing pants and boots. Interestingly enough, they all also seem to be fit, with at least defined abs if not outright-fucking eight packs. Even the weasel is muscled in a wiry sort of way. I must be high. Honestly.
They're all light-skinned, though a few sport features that aren't as caucasian as their skin. The guy directly in front of me at the moment almost looks like an albino black man. They stick together in little groups of similar wing shades, talking quietly to themselves and looking over the women on the walls. They don't touch any of us, which is a bit of a relief. Only a bit.
