Chapter 1
884 Words
The girl’s screams shattered the silence.
“Mother—Mommy! Please! Don’t let them take me!”
Her voice was raw, desperate, but it made no difference. The men in black dragged her forward with the ease of trained handlers, their thick fingers sinking deep into her arms like iron clamps. She kicked, twisted—anything to break free—but resistance was useless. Their grip was unyielding.
On the porch of a weatherworn house, surrounded by a stretch of lifeless fields, her mother sobbed. Her cries fell on deaf ears. No one came. No one ever did.
The woman had done everything she could—everything within her powerless grasp—to keep her daughter safe. A quiet existence, whispers in the dark, a desperate attempt to erase time itself. If they did not know her daughter had reached the age, then perhaps—just perhaps—she could stay.
But there had been a weak link. The father.
A man bound not by love nor duty, but greed. The moment he uncovered his wife’s deception, he had undone it all. There had been no hesitation. No shame. He had delivered the girl himself, as if correcting an unfortunate delay in payment. His pockets swelled with government-issued compensation, yet his expression remained vacant, a cruel facsimile of a smile resting upon his lips.
The mother watched as her daughter was handed off like a transaction—because that was all she was. A piece of merchandise. A commodity with an expiration date.
“Mother, Mother!” Abby’s voice cracked, but the sound was cut short by the slam of the car door.
The mother lunged forward.
“Abby!”
The vehicle rumbled to life. She ran, hand outstretched, reaching for the handle—so close—until arms encircled her from behind, lifting her off the ground. She fought. Kicked. Clawed. But her husband did not let go. Without a single glance back at his daughter, he carried his wife into the house, sealing the door shut behind them.
Inside the car, Abby trembled. She did not know these men, nor where they were taking her. She only knew that her fate had been signed away by the very man meant to protect her.
Her breathing quickened. She felt the car’s walls closing in, her body shrinking against the seat.
A sharp yank at her arm jolted her upright.
“Shut up, you stupid b***h,” one of the men snapped, his grip crushing.
She did not realize she had been sobbing. Her throat burned as she swallowed down her fear, forcing herself still. She was nothing here. Nothing but cargo.
The men spoke in low voices, laughing among themselves, their words a murky blur in the background. Abby forced herself to tune them out. She thought of her mother, the warmth of her presence, the illusion of safety they had once shared. Afternoons spent cooking together. Evenings whispering stories by candlelight. Nights when her mother would sing, her voice a delicate thread in the darkness.
Can you hear the whistles of the moon?
Stars in the night sky, dancing to its tune...
Abby hummed the melody under her breath, desperate for an anchor.
A sharp voice cut through the air.
“Are you humming?”
She froze.
The driver sneered. “I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut. This isn’t some damn music festival.”
The song died on her lips.
The car rolled to a stop. The doors opened. Hands seized her again—rough, impatient. She was pulled out, shoved forward. Before her stood a building. Gray, lifeless, its windows dark voids in the night.
She knew, instinctively, that stepping inside meant the end of something. Whatever innocence she had left would not leave with her.
The corridor was narrow, lined with doors. The air was thick—damp, stagnant, choked with the scent of unwashed bodies and stale fear. She was not alone.
They shoved her into a room.
The door slammed shut.
It was then that she saw them.
Girls. Younger, older—huddled together in silence. Their faces were blank, their eyes hollow wells of exhaustion. Some had long since given up screaming.
Abby opened her mouth to speak, to ask, but no words came. What was left to ask?
Minutes passed. An hour. Time was shapeless here.
Then—footsteps.
A group of men entered, their presence carrying the weight of finality.
“Get up.” The voice was coarse, absent of patience. Hands yanked girls to their feet, shoving them toward the door. “Move. You’re getting dressed.”
There were no questions. There was no need. They already knew.
Abby did not resist. She followed, as she had been taught. The garments they were given were not garments at all—scraps of fabric meant to display, not conceal.
She stood before the mirror, her reflection unrecognizable.
The final instruction came, delivered with mechanical detachment:
“Tonight, you stop living off your fathers.” A pause. A grin. “If you’re lucky, a man will take you.”
The room was silent.
Abby said nothing. She only stared into the mirror, knowing she could never unsee herself.
Because this was the moment it began.
Or rather—the moment everything ended.
- Writer
