My words are meant to be a pep talk, but it seems to have the opposite effect on Alice, who bursts into tears. A domino effect of emotional distress rips through the group until the entire room is crying, sniffling, sucking in tears—all the things I hate.
Dammit.
Sighing, I bring my knees up to my chest and my long brown hair around my ears, trying my best to tune them all out.
“Stop that racket, you stupid whores!” a guard yells, pounding his gun against the bars.
The room instantly falls silent, and I find myself liking the guard a bit more for making the room go silent again. How fucked up is that?
Our cell door is opened, and three guards enter the small cage holding me and eleven other women. We are all handcuffed at the hands and feet, but I don’t think the cuffs are needed for most of the women. They are all too terrified to run or fight. They’ve already accepted their fate.
The guards start grabbing women up off the floor until they are on their shaky feet. I refuse to be pulled up by my hair or arms, so I stand before a guard can get to me. I will not be afraid—I refuse. As long as I don’t say that I’m scared, I won’t be. I can’t lie to myself and say that I’m happy or unafraid. Deep down there is some fear, but as long as I can’t focus on it, then I’m not lying or telling the truth. I’m just focusing on other things.
A guard reaches me, seeing me standing eye to eye to him. I’m tall, even without heels.
“Are you going to be a problem?” he asks, eyeing me before uncuffing my ankles.
I raise an eyebrow. “Only if you try to hurt me.”
He huffs and then grabs my arm roughly. I fight, trying to pull my arm free as I kick at his legs.
He shakes me; I fight harder.
He stops, I stop.
He sighs. “Fine, we will do this your way. I’ve dealt with your type before, and I’d like to have children someday.”
I grin when he releases my arm. I’m the only woman left in the room. He correctly guessed that I would kick him in the balls if he manhandled me too much.
“This way,” he points to the exit of the cage.
I start walking untouched.
He verbally commands me to walk down the hallway to a small room where three women wait for me.
I spot a chair in the center that’s meant to glamorize me—make me look like a woman again instead of a gaunt invalid that hasn’t been fed in a week.
“Sit,” the man says.
I sit, knowing he is the least of my worries.
“I’ll be right outside the door. Don’t give them any trouble, or I’ll break your wrist.”
“You can’t do that. I doubt the men who are waiting for us want to buy broken women.”
He frowns. “That’s why I said wrist instead of foot or nose. The men won’t be able to tell your wrist is broken. The swelling won’t happen until after you’ve already been sold, and by then, we can just say they were the ones who broke it.”
With that, he walks out, slamming the door.
The three women all put their heads down, none of them looking me in the eyes as they begin to work on my hair, face, and nails.
“Why do you work for these men?” I ask.
None of them answer me.
Two of the women murmur something low and quiet to each other. It’s then that I realize they don’t speak English. Two of the women look Hispanic. One of the women is black and doesn’t chat with the other two. I look like a mix of the three women.
My skin is tan in an exotic way. I don’t know the nationality of my birth parents, but I would guess I’m a mix of several ethnicities. My adoptive parents always treated me as if I were a bad person for having an unknown origin. My culture is a strength—I am a mix of everything and hence know more of the world because of it.
The women chat again.
“Why do you work for these men?” I ask in Spanish.
All of the women freeze but don’t answer me. They heard and understood what I said, though.
So I try again. “Help me. Or at least help them,” I say in Spanish.
Nothing.
One woman files my fingers harder until I’m not sure I’ll have a fingernail left.
I sigh.
“They won’t answer you,” the third woman says.
“Why not?” I ask, looking into her eyes. She meets my gaze, and I realize she’s old enough to be my grandmother. The other two women are closer to my age.
“Because they are afraid. Everyone is afraid. They risk facing the same fate as you if they help you.”
I look at the two beautiful women working on my hair and nails. They aren’t wearing any makeup, they wear their hair back in buns, trying to hide their beauty.
“The only reason they aren’t sold is that they can do hair and makeup.”
I nod. “And you? Will you help?”
The older woman grabs my hand and places it between her two hands, trying to comfort me. It works, my insides warm a little at the touch.
“Do I look like I’m strong enough to be able to help you escape?”
I sigh.
“I can’t help you or any of the other women escape. But I can offer you words.”
I nod for her to speak, even though I don’t think words are going to be able to help me right now.
“Give them hell.”
Three little words—give them hell.
I scrunch my nose, and she laughs.
“I see how much fighting spirit you have inside you—use it. The ones who last—the ones who make the men fall in love with them are the ones who eventually gain control. They become the masters.
“You have what it takes. You will not only survive, but you will become powerful. You will rule. You will have the ability to one day put an end to this. So give them hell.”
Give them hell.
I nod. That, I can do.
She smiles at my reaction and then gets back to work at plucking my eyebrows.
The rest of my time with the women is silent as they work. They paint my nails, curl my mud-brown hair, decorate my face in makeup, and wax off every piece of body hair. Then they leave me alone with a rack of lingerie and a robe.
They didn’t have to tell me what to do, I already know. Pick out the piece of lingerie to wear on stage.
I don’t want to wear any lingerie.
But the guard’s words haunt me. If I go for more money, I will be better taken care of. I’ll be more valuable. So I need to choose what I wear carefully.
I look over the garments. Most are white—innocent.
I laugh, I’m not innocent. I’m not an angel. Those were the words I said to Zeke. I’m not an angel. But neither is he—the bastard. I saved his life, and he repaid that debt by being an even bigger schmuck than I thought possible.
Fuck him.
Fuck them all.
Give them hell.
I grin when I find the last garment on the end of the rack. I put it on and stare at myself in the mirror before I put the robe on, covering my body.
Just as I finish veiling myself with the robe, the guard opens the door without knocking.
“Time to go back to your cage,” he says.
I stand taller than him now in my heels, and the lustful look on his face as he takes in my appearance tells me that even with the robe on, I would go for a lot of money. But once I take the robe off, my price will skyrocket.
He clears his throat and holds the door open for me. I brush past him as I strut.