Broken Silence
1113 Words
The first time I saw him, he didn’t speak.
He slowly emerged from the shadows, and his features were revealed by the lights in the hallway.
He was tall—maybe about 6ft. He was muscular, his rolled-up sleeves revealing tattoos and scars. Looking at them, I felt a strange urge to trace them… maybe kiss them too, if I was allowed.
He was the kind of man whose silence demanded attention. The other girls froze when they saw him, and that was enough to tell me everything.
He was different. Not a guard. Not a buyer.
Someone worse. And yet, I was drawn to him.
The moment his dark eyes landed on me, I felt my breath hitch. He studied me from head to toe, then let out a hum of approval and left.
I’d gotten his attention. I couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.
Sometime later…
I was sitting on the floor, back against the peeling wall, knees pulled to my chest. Hours had passed—or maybe days. Time didn’t work the same way here. The windows were fake—painted on like a twisted joke—and the lights never went off unless the guards turned them off.
Some girls whispered to themselves, and some had stopped whispering altogether.
He walked in slowly, hands behind his back, boots too clean for this place. I recognized power in him—not the kind that screams, but the kind that doesn’t have to.
“You,” he said, voice low. “Stand up.”
At first, I thought he meant someone else. But his eyes were on me. And when I didn’t move fast enough, one of the guards yanked me up by my arm.
His eyes—God, his eyes bored into mine just like the first time I’d seen him.
He looked at me like I wasn’t real. Like he was already imagining me as something else.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
I swallowed. My throat was dry.
“Estelle.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. More like recognition. He knew me?
“Pretty name,” he murmured, then turned and left.
That night, they took me to a different room.
Not the one with the other girls. Not the filthy bunkhouse with rusted beds and piss-stained sheets. This room had a real bed, soft satin sheets, a chair, and a mirror bolted to the wall. It felt like being moved from one level of hell to another—this one just had pillows.
I didn’t sleep. Not because I couldn’t, but because I knew what was coming.
He returned the next day.
Antonio.
He introduced himself like we were on a date. Like this was a hotel and I was a willing guest.
“I’m Antonio,” he said, sitting in the chair across from the bed. “You’ll be staying here now.”
I didn’t answer. I was used to not talking until I was spoken to.
He studied me—not in the way men usually did. He wasn’t checking for curves or youth or s*x appeal.
He was looking at my habits, trying to know me… how I blinked and how I sat. My heart fluttered when he took my hands in his. I know I should’ve pulled away, but something about the gesture made me feel excited.
“You have fire,” he said after a long pause. “I like that.”
I said nothing.
He leaned back, relaxed. Like he had all the time in the world.
“Tell me, Estelle. Do you know what it means to belong to someone?”
My mouth twitched. I didn’t mean to speak, but the words slipped out anyway.
“I belong to no one.”
His lips twisted into a slow, controlled smile. It was tender.
“You will.”
That night, he didn’t touch me.
He just stood by the door after dinner had been brought in, watching me eat. My dinner tonight was different; it was pasta. It smelled divine.
Was this another thing phase 2 gave? Better food and comfort?
The next few days were strange.
He would come in, sit, talk—ask me about my childhood, about the kind of music I loved listening to, about books I liked.
I didn’t answer at first. Then I started to. I gave him small details. The more I gave him, the less he asked.
And the more confused I became.
Because Antonio didn’t try to force himself on me. I had expected it, counted down to it even. He never tried to handle me forcefully either.
In fact, he started punishing the guards who hit me too much or shoved me roughly for their own amusement.
He was building something else. A space in my mind where fear lived—not from violence, but from trying to guess what was coming.
He wasn’t a man. He was a slow-moving predator, and I was the prey he was playing with for entertainment.
One night, I asked him why I was here.
He smiled. It was real this time—like I’d passed some unspoken test.
“Because I chose you,” he said.
He stepped close to me, menacingly. I flinched.
“You see, Estelle… girls like you—” he paused, savoring the flavor of my name “—they don’t come around often. You still have fight in you. That’s rare. And useful.”
“Useful?” I spat. “You think this is a job interview?”
He chuckled, then stood.
“In a way, yes. Your body and your mind… that’s mine now. And soon, you’ll see that—and thank me.”
He left.
I broke that night.
Not from what he did, but from what he didn’t do.
From the waiting. The pretending. The gentle voice wrapped around jagged words.
I wasn’t afraid of pain.
I was afraid of becoming something that didn’t remember who I used to be.
I learned to hide my fear behind stillness.
Then one day, Antonio came in with a man in a white coat.
He stood by the bed, fingers laced together. Eyes soft. Like a lover. Like a liar.
“This is Dr. Mauro,” he said. “He’s here to ensure everything goes smoothly.”
I looked between them.
“What the f**k are you talking about?”
Antonio’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Then he leaned over me.
“He’s here to ensure that what is mine is healthy enough—and able to work.”
“Work?” I asked, my heartbeat quickening as it dawned on me.
- Writer
