Prologue

"Everything around me burns, everyone around me burns. I'm just trying to save myself."

-Jumbo

I am used to the four walls of this place. The four corners surrounding me are just white like they want to conform my sanity to be nothing but a plain white paper.

It is not yet time. I hear no screams of anguish. I hear nothing. It is almost like if I find a way to break free, the halls would be empty. But I know better.

I can not say accurately what lies in the hallway or how many people are out there and what sort of weapons they carry. I know there are plenty of men and there are girls like me waiting for their fate in these small cubicles. Okay, maybe they're not like me. 

The shoe sounds and pattern of feet shuffling always tell me who is coming; if it's just a leisurely stroll or he's on an assignment. I know there's a woman. I do not know her walking pattern because the first day I heard her voice outside my door, I did not hear her approach; I only heard the man.

This little room is devoid of life. The bright lights shining so brightly do not let me know when the sun has fallen or when it has risen unless I go to the window which allows me to see the sky and another tall building blocking my view from the world.

 I do not like to go to the window. I sit on the stool at the center of the room and imagine there's a fan above that I can hang my noose on - if I had a noose. It is not like I want to die. No, I'm too full of life to want death. There's no fan anyway. There is just the air-conditioner.

I try standing on the stool. I position myself till I'm balanced then I reach up to touch the ceiling. The ceiling is way above me and I'm just an average girl. The mission was a failure even before it began.

Still standing on the stool, I look around the room with arms folded. My life is becoming nothing. It was nothing before but it is like ashes now and the wind is blowing it away.

Tomorrow I might die or face whatever makes the girls outside this door scream. I always wonder what it is: 

Did they always bring them out to the hallway to cut off their breasts? 

Was it their eyes being plucked out?

I climb down from the stool and continue to imagine what could make anyone scream like they were betrayed to be thrown into hellfire - so the scream comes from a place of heartbreak and physical pain. I try and fail to imagine the right circumstance.

The scream comes. I hear it like it is in the next room or outside my door. They will soon pass my room; they always do. One man will be carrying the girl - his steps are always different from the others that will be following them. The girl would still be wailing and struggling.

I wait. It only meant that my time to know what was making them scream was nearing. I wonder what order they use to operate. Is it the fairer ones first? or the taller ones first? or by time of arrival?

Soon they pass. There is no noise from the girl. She must have passed out. From the footsteps I hear, I can inaccurately say they were up to five men with the girl-carrier whose steps were more hurried than others.

I should be hungry but I am not. Not because I have adapted to this place with time but because meals are in better proportion here than at home.

 It is actually three weeks gone. I have been counting it because if I am going to die, I better know my death day.

I walk to the window to check if I can determine the time of the day by the weather. The sun is still out there playing in the clouds but it looked like it was getting tired. It will soon retire.

This should be a prison but I am more curious than I am scared. I woke up here in this ugly pink maternity gown. There is nothing here except a stool. Behind the wooden demarcation is my toilet and a wash hand basin. It is all too small for comfort.

I would like Uncle Joel to be here. He would have a heart attack and nobody will know. Alone, he will scream and writhe in pain. Alone, he will die.

I hear footsteps approaching. They seem leisurely,  not determined. I could tell the person was alone. The footsteps stop at my door and I immediately know that it is my turn.

Even though I have always waited for this day, I do not feel it in me to just submit to one man. I would fight. Even if it would get me killed, I would fight.

I return to the stool and wait. My visitor is still standing at my door, not opening the door but I knew he was still there.

I begin to count inaudibly.  One.       

Two. 

Three. 

Four

... Thirteen.

Keys begin to rattle in the lock. I keep counting, waiting. Fourteen. 

Fifteen.

The door opens and a stout man walks in. His eyes are very small like they are closed. I don't know if it is those eyes or the way he stood after he closed the door that reminds me of Uncle Joel.

Food was normally passed through a small rectangular opening on the door but he stood there with a foil. My stomach betrays me; it rumbles loudly.

He smiles and comes closer. I wonder if this is how it happens before the pain is inflicted and I would be dragged out with my screams as loud as a war cry.

The man squats before me, he takes my hand and puts the foil in my hand. I do not look at my hand. Instead, I look at the sutured scar very close to his ear. I look at him and I see him. All of him is in his eyes - the impatience beneath the patience, the lust beneath the kindness, the violence beneath his calmness. The eyes could betray anyone. 

I remain as meek as a mouse. With mouth closed, I shake my head. He quirks an eyebrow. "You are not hungry?"

I nod. He gets up and a careless presentation reveals the gun in his belt holder. He takes the foil from my hand and drops it on the ground at a corner of the room.

"Bend over the stool."

I do not move. I just stare at him. His patience is waning. Lust and impatience is a bomb. I know this.

"Bend. Over."

The stillness of his voice is supposed to be fearful so I shiver, giving him what he expects. I stand with my arms around myself. He smiles and comes closer. His fingers graze around my nipples and I just stare at him.

"You are not going to make one sound, you hear me?" he whispers, blowing hot air in my ear. I nod.

" You are going to be a good girl, you hear me?"

I nod while looking down, noting all the bulges around his trouser. His knife was strapped in an open leather compartment around his thighs.

"Now, turn around."

I do not turn. I stand there hugging myself while forcing a whimper out. He forcefully turns me to bend over the stool then his hands forcefully grab my breast. I whimper some more.

"Ssssh. No sounds," he says.

I hear the unbuckling of his belt. "You are going to be a good girl."

I nod, letting out a sniff. He seems pleased by my weakness. Uncle Joel used to be.

He raises my gown and begins to rub his arousal on my butt cheeks.  "Don't make a sound," he warns.

I know he is not supposed to be here. I know this is not what makes the girls scream. I have always been a fighter in times like this but I let him feed on my silence. There were times too when I did not fight. I simply withdraw myself from the environment so it is just my body being violated over a stool - not me.

He is not fast like Uncle Joel. He is not in a hurry and is not panting like a dog. He is silent as a thief. 

I wait. There was a time of vulnerability for all dogs so I wait. I bring my hands down close to his knees and I cry out. His hand immediately goes around my mouth.

My cries come out muffled against his palm. "Silence," he warns.

I move my head up and down. His thrusting increases, the sound of him ramming against my butt cheeks gets louder but he does not seem to notice. It is time.

In a quick motion, I take his knife and put my hand under the stool. He is close to his edge and faraway from the surroundings. This is the time you could easily take a man's life and he might not know until he falls.

 Grunting, he rams inside me the more. I wait till his warm cum pours on my butt down to my legs.

I turn immediately and lean on the stool with my hand beneath it.

"I would visit you more often before you are sold," he says with a crooked smile.

I smile back and plunge the knife deep into the side of his stomach. He moves back with charged up fury in his eyes and lands a slap across my face before I could withdraw the knife.

My body falls off the stool and he immediately attacks again, delivering more smacks across my face.

My hands find his balls and give them a tight squeeze enough for him to scream like one of the girls and roll off my body. Hurriedly, I move over and pummel the knife deeper into his stomach. 

I do not want to kill this man. He should just be still but he's not. He is so dumb - he does not know how to play dead. I pull out the knife and he lets out another soul wrenching scream. Then it ends as soon as I plunge the knife into his neck. His body convulses, his eyeballs roll up, the strong commanding man is reduced to a dying lettuce bleeding out in front of me. 

I spit out the blood in my mouth and stare at the first man I took his life. I almost get lost watching life leave a body. I almost got lost seeing all the blood but I knew soon someone would find out that the masculine screams came from here so my mind wakes up.

 I grab his bunch of keys and run off into the hallway - into a world I'm not sure what lies ahead. 

The hallway is brightly illuminated. I am running in the open. I want to enter another cubicle, I want to leave these bright lights but I keep running without knowing which way is forward.

I keep running because survival is by running not to sit and mourn. I know it is just a binomial probability; I will either run into my freedom or I'll run into my death. It is what I do best - I run.

I run into a woman. Face to face, body to body. I move back covering my mouth from screaming. I recover quickly and access her. She seems to be waiting for my move. She is just a few inches taller than me but I can take her. I could jump on her slender body and choke life out of her.

Her face is plain. Her hands hidden away in her black jacket. Curiosity stills my leg. Her hands could be on a revolver.

"It was self defense," I say, throwing up my hands.

She moves out of the way and nods ahead. 

Shocked, I ask, " You are letting me go?"

She nods forward. Without further explanation, I thank her and run into another route different from the one she came from.

A sharp pain from my left calf halts my steps. I reach down and feel the sticky fluid running down.  I try to turn but then the impact hits. I feel myself falling. Blurry images of feminine features and black jackets float across my eyes. I don't want to reach the ground. I want to crawl away but the dizziness pulls me in and drags me under.