Did this girl seriously up and leave in the middle of the night? She didn’t even have her car.
There is no way she would risk walking down Greek Row in the middle of the night, actually taking the chance of running into some drunk frat guys. She’s smarter than that.
I already figured out she had commitment issues, but after we established our relationship last night, this is pretty out of touch, even for someone like her.
I reach over for my phone that sits on the charger next to my lamp and see a text message from her.
Cassidy: I have a math exam today that I have to study for. Catch up later?
I quickly respond.
Me: No problem
I see the three dots waiting for her response, but it doesn’t come. My heart sinks into my stomach.
Cassidy never mentioned having any academic struggles. I don’t know why she would need to study at all for the exam or need that much preparation.
Shrugging my shoulders, I change for the gym and throw my sneakers on. Deciding not to get coffee at my regular spot, I head down to the kitchen to grab a coffee. The chefs usually get here early and have the coffee and to-go cups ready. On my way out of the fraternity house, I stop by the charging station, which has laptops, headphones, and extra phones, and snag a pair of the new Sony noise-canceling headphones for the gym. I sync them to my phone, and my favorite Spotify playlist starts as I walk out the door.
Still having a weird feeling about Cassidy, I make a mental note to catch up with her later, but right now, I need to focus on my day, which is set up to be a very long one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The tattooist, sitting in the middle of the back of the van with broad shoulders and seemingly confident in his job, is almost finished tattooing all the girls, and, of course, I am last, sweating with anticipation. There are no tattoos on my body.
Half of his face is a skeleton outline tattoo; the rest of his body is covered by a sweatshirt and pants, but I’m sure he has tattoos all over.
For someone with very broad shoulders, he moves gracefully as he unhandcuffs me and moves me to the middle seat, indicating it’s my turn to be forever marked.
On instinct, I fight him off me. Anger clouding his face, he grabs my jaw and presses the tips of his fingers into pressure points on either side, causing instant pain that forces me to sitstill and look into this man’s eyes. As I suspected, they are dark and show no remorse whatsoever for what he is doing. I guess they have to have that mindset doing this kind of work, knowing where we are headed. He doesn’t want to speak to any of us or make eye contact because that makes it real and not just a shitty fucked up job he can go home and complain to his girlfriend about.
Gritting his teeth as if he’s forcing the words to come out, he says, “Fight me,bitch,and I’ll inject you with a drug that will make you so high you’ll be in the stars for days,understood?” Drops of spit land on my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut as tears begin to fall, and I nod, vigorously shaking.
Getting this tattoo will make me want to slice my skin off the first chance I get, knowing what it means.
I don’t even know what he is tattooing on us. The other girls have completely sunk into themselves, looking like zombies and zoned out. People deal with trauma in different ways. Personally, I can’t shut down like the rest of them. If anything, I am hyper-aware of my surroundings. My adrenaline is at full blast, and I’m looking for any kind of weakness and the first opportunity to escape.
There is no fire left in most of these women. I have to remember they were locked up in those cages for a week, maybe longer, and subjected to unthinkable things, so they knew or had an inkling this was going to be their fate, and this is probably acceptance of it.
As for me, less than twelve hours ago, I was a normal college student who had been literally plucked from that life.
Jasmine makes eye contact with me. I hold her gaze because I need this connection right now to get me through this. I’m trembling, not because of the pain but because of what this tattoo is going to mean on my body. This is what they do to cattle, not humans. The man with the skull face starts up thetattoo gun, and I feel the tip graze my skin. The burn starts as he goes back over what he just drew on my right wrist. I’m too scared to look at what he is putting on my body.
Instead, I look up and notice the sunlight starting to peek through the windows, which would mean that we have been in the van for almost an hour or so. We can barely see out the windows; It looks like there are blackout tints on the inside as well.
The tattoo takes less than three minutes.
He unstraps me and puts me back in my seat, handcuffing my left wrist. My wrist is wrapped up in that clear wrap they usually use at the tattoo shops, and the tattoo is bleeding. He didn’t go easy on me. It reads “9003.”
I hold my breath, trying to process this. So, in this sex trafficking ring, they number the girls. I’m number 9,003? My stomach begins churning, and I have to put my head between my legs. How long have they been doing this? And getting away with it? Pure horror sweeps over my body, and I feel completely ill. They’ve been able to do this to over nine thousand women.
Chills rack over my body as a memory resurfaces, the woman in the bathroom of the club’s secret basement who looked like a dominatrix. I couldn’t make out her tattoo, but it’s in the same placement as mine, and now I realize it was numbers, too. I squeeze my eyes shut. Those women were sex slaves as well… there against their will… to be used.
The man turns to his toolbox, which contains who knows what else. Slowly, he pulls out and places giant syringes on top. What the hell? Opening another drawer, he places the smallest silver contraptions I’ve seen next to them. They begin to blink red. He retrieves a remote and a small laptop, plugging in numbers.
One by one, he injects every girl in the neck with the tiny device. Screaming in pain and clutching their necks, they cryharder. It’s my turn, and I’m so frozen to the bone in fear that I let my mind drift somewhere else.
After the injection, I do the same, holding my neck as some blood seeps out, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened. Then it dawns on me, and my eyes widen. It's a tracking device.
