THE SILENCE BEFORE THE SCREAM
1462 Words
The room they threw me in didn’t have a light.At first, I thought that was mercy. But soon, I realized it was just another kind of cruelty.
The darkness didn’t stay quiet. It whispered.
Cold air leaked through cracks in the wall, touching my bare arms like fingers. The floor beneath me was hard, rough, cold, maybe concrete, maybe stone. I couldn't tell. My knees ached from where I had hit the ground. My cheek still burned from the slap, and my hands… they wouldn’t stop shaking.
I curled into myself. Not for comfort, just instinct.
Time passed. But I had no way of knowing how much. Minutes. Hours. A day? I lost track. There was no window. No sound except my breath and the occasional creak above me.
I was alone.
Then came the door.
It opened so fast I flinched. The sudden light blinded me. I threw up a hand to shield my face.
Two guards entered. One held a baton.
I didn’t scream. I don’t think I could.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t warn.
The baton came down. Once. Twice. My back. My side. The pain lit my nerves on fire, white-hot and sharp.
I gasped.
Another hit. My leg this time. I tried to curl tighter, to disappear into the floor, but they didn’t care. Maybe that was the point.
Pain blurred everything. I tasted blood, maybe from where I bit my tongue. My head spun.
Then nothing.
Darkness again. But deeper.
When I woke, I was alone once more. The door was shut. My body ached in places I couldn’t name. My stomach growled loudly and angrily, but there was no food
No water either.
Just me.
The girl who tried to fight. The girl who dared to say no.
And this was the price.
My thoughts wandered, as thoughts do when the body is in pain. I didn’t want them to. But I couldn’t stop it.
I thought of home.
Even though I knew home wasn’t worth thinking about.
Not really.
What would my mother be doing now? Would she be looking for me?
And my father. Maybe he was sleeping off whatever bottle had numbed him the night before. Maybe he didn’t care.
He sold me. Or gave me away. Same thing in the end.
But part of me still missed them. Or maybe I just missed something. Warmth. Noise. The feel of my old, lumpy mattress. The sharp smell of fried oil from the corner vendor.
The sound of music from my neighbor’s cracked radio.
My job.
The pay was trash, but the owner gave me old buns at the end of the day. Sometimes, if she was in a good mood, she’d sneak me extra.
I used to walk home with those buns in a plastic bag, pressing them to my chest like treasure.
Now look at me.
Curled up on a blood-stained floor, counting the seconds between beatings.
And still alive.
Barely.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but my body wouldn’t let me. It was too sore, too stiff. And the silence…it wasn't peaceful. It screamed.
A sound broke it.
Footsteps.
The door opened again.
This time, the light wasn’t so harsh. I didn’t flinch.
It wasn’t a guard.
It was the woman In the black dress.The one with the clipboard. Her heels clicked as she stepped inside.
She looked down at me like I was nothing. Like a stain.
But in her hand was a hanger.
A dress.
Red. Low cut. Tight.
She tossed it onto the floor beside me.
“Get up,” she said. “You’re on the list again tonight.”
I didn't move. I just stared at the fabric.
Red. Like danger. Like blood.
“You want a bucket of water thrown on you, is that it?” she snapped. “Or do you want another session with the guards?”
My lips parted, but no words came.
I reached for the dress.
My fingers barely worked. I struggled to lift my arms, to pull the fabric over my bruised skin. It clung to me, too small, too thin. It smelled like perfume and sweat and fear.
I didn’t bother asking where they were taking me.
I already knew.
Another man. Another room. Another chance to say yes.
But I wasn’t ready to be broken.
Not yet.
I stood slowly, my legs weak but steady. The woman looked at me, then turned toward the door.
“Follow me.”
I did.
Each step felt like a war.
But I walked anyway.
Not because I was brave.
But because I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of dragging me.
Not tonight.
The hallway was long and quiet.
Each step echoed too loudly, like my heels were betraying me, announcing my fear to the walls. I kept my head down, eyes on the shiny floor that reflected the red of my dress. It looked like blood pooling beneath me with every step.
We passed closed doors. Behind one, I heard muffled laughter. Behind another, crying. The woman didn’t flinch. She didn’t slow down. I wondered how many girls she’d walked down this hallway. How many hadn’t come back?
She finally stopped in front of a tall, black door.
Two men stood outside it, dressed in sleek suits and expressionless faces. One nodded and opened it without a word. The woman stepped aside and gestured for me to go in.
I hesitated just for a second but the glint in her eye warned me not to test her patience.
I walked through the door.
The room smelled like cigars and money. Expensive cologne hung in the air like poison. Soft jazz played from unseen speakers, a strange contrast to the dread crawling up my spine.
He was there.
Sitting behind a wide mahogany desk, hands folded, suit crisp and dark like a shadow. He didn’t look up immediately, just tapped a finger slowly on a stack of papers in front of him.
“You're late,” he said finally.
I didn’t answer.
He raised his eyes then. They were ice blue. Sharp. Unblinking. He scanned me like a document he was about to sign, and for a moment, he didn’t speak. Just looked. Like he was trying to decide what kind of creature I was.
I straightened my spine, even though everything inside me screamed to shrink away.
“Sit,” he said.
A single chair sat across from him. I crossed the room carefully and sat down, tucking my shaking hands into my lap.
He leaned back and picked up a pen.
“Do you know who I am?”
“No,” I said quietly.
He smirked.
“Good. It means you're still honest. I like that. Honesty makes this easier.”
I stayed silent.
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thin file. I opened it. Read something.
“Your name is Ruth. Your father’s name is Paul.
I looked away.
“He owed us money. Lots of it. Gambling, mostly. Drugs. And when he couldn’t pay, we took you.
My throat tightened.
“You,” he said, voice calm. “He gave us you.”
I nodded once, swallowing the bitterness.
He closed the file gently and set it aside.
“Now, let me be clear, Ruth. We’re not a charity. And this isn’t a prison. Not technically.”
I looked at him.
“You’re here to work. To pay off what your father couldn’t. And until that debt is paid in full you belong to us.”
“How much?” I asked, voice low.
He chuckled.
“More than you can count. But don’t worry. There are… ways. Men will pay good money for a girl like you. Especially one who still fights her.”
I clenched my jaw.
He stood and walked around the desk, stopping just in front of me. I didn’t flinch, even though every part of me wanted to recoil.
He tilted his head.
“You think this is unfair.”
“Yes.”
“But you're still here.”
“Because I don’t have a choice.”
“Exactly.” He smiled faintly. “So behave yourself. Tomorrow. Upstairs. You’ll serve drinks. Pour smiles. Sit onlaps if asked. And when you’re ready, if you want to earn faster, you'll open more doors.”
I didn’t respond.
He crouched slightly, lowering himself to my level.
“But until then…” he reached out and brushed a finger under my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his, “you’ll do as you're told. Because if you don’t… we can always call the guards again. Or worse.”
I jerked my face away.
He straightened, adjusting his cufflinks.
“I admire your defiance. It’ll sell well.”
- Writer
