Saving Aurora

Aurora Mid- April: Hong Kong The house is now quiet as the noises of s*x and partying have finally stopped. It should be simple to sneak out. “It’s now or never,” I mutter to myself as I tremble and grasp the door handle. Fortunately, my captors haven’t locked me in the little, prison-like room, so the door opens when the knob turns. I believe I woke up two days ago with the worst hangover I’ve ever had and disoriented from whatever chemicals they had shot me with. The tequila-fueled New Year’s celebration from last year is nothing like this! I was too lightheaded to understand what was actually happening as the tiny space swirled before my eyes. All I knew was that I had been abducted. Since then, I’ve been able to figure out that I’m probably not in Paris. Through the drugged-induced haze, I haven’t comprehended a single word they’ve said to me because they’re speaking what I guess is Chinese Mandarin instead of French. I should have taken Mandarin last semester instead of f*****g French. It would have been far more beneficial! In any case, who needs to know French? In Paris, the majority of the French people I saw knew at least a little bit of English, and many of them were keen to practice with me. I tried to flush out whatever substance they had injected me with by drinking every drop of water they gave me as soon as the fog began to clear. Additionally, I exaggerated the effects to give them the impression that I was still affected by the medicines. I felt almost human again by last night. It’s time for me to go now. I can see that I’m being held on the third floor of a huge residential house by glancing out the tiny window. Since I had a lot of experience sneaking into and out of my residence during high school, I feel rather confident in my abilities. I’ve been anxiously awaiting the calm of the house. I hope they’re all asleep. I sneak out of the room barefoot because my shoes have vanished, but I’m still wearing the same black dress I was abducted in. There are other doors on either side of the lengthy hallway, and I can make out a stairway at the far end in the dark. I move slowly down the corridor, staying out of the shadows and muffling my footsteps with the rug that runs the length of it. Leaning my weight on the railing to make my steps easier on the treads, I tiptoe toward the stairs and gently make my way down to the landing until I reach another lengthy hallway. This one has more light, and I soon reach another railing that looks out over the open entrance. I can see the sun peeking through the windows there in the early morning. We can see the big entrance door! I can practically hear my heart thumping in my chest. I approach the stairway cautiously, but I stop when I spot a big man in a suit approaching the door and standing guard outside. He taps his ear as though someone were whispering to him after a few seemingly endless seconds, then disappears down a nearby hallway until I can no longer see him. . With haste, I descend the steps. I fling open the door, run outside, and ignore my feet’s protests about the cold and uneven ground as I go down the cement steps. I reach a gorgeous gate as I proceed down the driveway. When I try to push it open, I discover that it is locked. f**k. I had to squat in order to crawl underneath. I scrape my palms on the cold, cracked concrete and wince. The thin material of my dress is starting to fray, and it almost covers my knees. I try to get up after crossing over, but my dress gets caught on one of the inhospitable spikes of the gate. Panicking, I tug myself loose, ripping a hole in the back of my dress. I’m sweating and trembling, but I keep running along the crowded sidewalk because I don’t want to get caught. When I stop dead in my tracks, I don’t get very far. Several big men in black suits step out of a black automobile that has driven up in front of me. I run into additional men as I turn to run in the other direction. I’m picked up by one of the men and carried over his shoulder. As they pull me back to the house, I struggle, yell, and kick. Pedestrians cross the crowded street, but nobody tries to stop them. They lead me through the back door into what I now understand to be the holding area for any clients who are violent or intoxicated. They laugh at my expense as I curl into a tight ball to defend myself, being cautious not to hit my face while they beat me with wooden canes. Then, with just a blanket and pillow, I am compelled to enter my now-familiar closet. I can hardly breathe or move. I’m at a loss. Captured. Beaten. But not r***d, Yet. The next morning, the balding middle-aged man who oversees the household, the overseer, drags me out of my closet. He spits and pokes a big finger in my face, saying, “You behave, or I have you beaten again.” “You work for me now until Sir comes for you.” This doesn’t tell me anything because every man that enters the house is addressed as “Sir.” No matter how hard it is, the only thing I can do is to continue breathing. I’ve learned from my escape attempt yesterday that before I try to escape again, I need to know as much as I can about my surroundings. With just a pillow, blanket, and my thoughts for company, I lie on the floor of this little, stifling closet and attempt to put together what is happening to me and why. I can’t manage my emotions, so I spend the remainder of the day in a state of despair and cry myself to sleep in silence. However, I soon see that this won’t enable me to get away. Nobody will explain my captivity to me the following day. And I have inquired several times. Although they chatter behind my back, the other residents of the residence seldom ever talk to me unless they are giving me instructions in shaky English. Furthermore, I can tell by their gestures and tone that they are not expressing how much they like having me here. So why am I? Every woman appears to be here voluntarily, from the servants who prepare meals and clean the house to the girls who wait on the guys. They greet the men who come with smiles, giggles, and excitement. To keep them from escaping, none of them are kept in at night. One of the things I’m able to piece together throughout the course of the days is where I am. I have determined that I am currently in Hong Kong from overhearing one of the gentlemen conversing with another. I still don’t know how I got here from Paris. I’m afraid to ask any of the males who come around for assistance. They hardly acknowledge me other than to order a drink or try to cop a feel. Nothing makes sense. I initially believed that I was being held hostage for ransom. Stone International, my late father’s business, is a multimillion dollar enterprise and one of the biggest importers of textiles in the nation. This is obviously untrue, or else I would be at liberty. Every time I think of my family, my chest violently seizes and my throat tightens. They must be going nuts trying to figure out what happened to me and where I am. I picture my cousin Peter and my stepfather James searching the world in a panic for me.And my dear mother is probably tired of worrying and acting as if nothing is wrong because she has already lost so much. I must return home to them. I just need to figure out how now!