Lily.
I nod and climb in the back seat quickly, and the man gives me a small, victorious smile as he rushes around and climbs into the driver’s seat. As the car lurches forward, I turn around and look at the house behind me filled with the girls who, like me, are too shocked and shattered to run. Too conditioned into obedience to run. Too conditioned to accept their fate because nothing else seemed possible—certainly not escape. Auguste Martin had been right, and I had begun to believe him too. “Your family will stop looking for you. The drugs will take over. The lifestyle will normalize. The novelty of running gets old. You start to appreciate the routine. The food. In your case, the luxury.”
The large Victorian house gets smaller and smaller as we drive away.
Driving away. Away from hell.
No one notices.
No one sees my escape.
It wasthateasy.
I got out.
I got out.
I should be smiling, whooping my arms into the air, laughing and celebrating. A stranger found me and is taking me… wherever he’s taking me.
Instead, I look forward again and swallow, letting my body fall to the side and curling my legs into my chest on the leather seats. Tears leak from my eyes, and I sob. Shaking, trembling, I pull my body into a tight ball, and I let myself cry. I cry for myself. I cry for them. I left them there to fight for themselves.
But I didn’tleavethem. I was taken away.
* * *
I don’t sleep. For days, I lie in bed, awake. In shock. Unsure if I should believe in miracles. For so long, Auguste told me it would never happen. I would never get out. I would continue being sold to the highest bidder, asked to do the most sexually demoralizing things I could imagine. The constant shame, guilt, and shock rendered me completely useless. I’d learned, over time, to get through each day. I had my coping mechanisms. Imagining how I’d murder Auguste was one thing I did each night before bed. Instead of saying my prayers, I listed the ways I wanted him dead. For the most part, I refused the hard drugs to stay clear-headed. I got to know the other girls—before they disappeared, that is. I made friends with them—and, like me, most of them are free now too, according to the man in my room.
Lily and someone she’s close to—I can tell by the way she looks at him—are letting me stay with his family. It’s a nice house outside of the city. At my request, the shades are drawn, and I don’t speak, except to Lily. I don’t trust anyone. I feel like a shelter animal, cowering in the corner, waiting for the next person to betray me.
A priest.
That’s who Lily is dating, though the idea doesn’t quite make sense, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why. My brain is still foggy from the pot and the sudden exodus from the hellhole I’d been living in for two years.
Salem.
That’s his name. I am so scatterbrained.
And Lily… seeing her again felt like a dream. I’d assumed she stopped looking for me, or worse—that she was dead. But she never stopped caring.Never stopped looking for me.When the guy brought me here—I can’t remember his name either—she came bursting into the bedroom and crawled into bed with me. We sobbed for what felt like hours, reunited. As she stroked my hair with her hands, she told me stories of how she tried to find me. For two years, she committed her life to figuring out where they were keeping me. It just so happened the two men—Salem and the other guy—were connected somehow, but now, days later, I can’t quite remember how.
I turn over, pulling the cool, linen sheets around me. Lily put me in fresh, clean pajamas after helping me shower. My hair is tangled. I haven’t brushed it in days, and my mouth is fuzzy from the lack of oral hygiene while I laid in bed. For days, I stared at the wall, turned away from the door in case anyone wanted to bother me. Not wanting to face what had happened to me, not believing my salvation was real. Every time I drifted into a sleep, I was sure I’d wake up in that house again, with girls on the floor, track marks covering their arms. Messy lipstick and tattered lingerie. Bruises. Always the bruises. I often had them, too. They were a product of our clients getting too overzealous. There were stipulations in place—they weren’t to harm us, and they never truly did in ways that mattered. But that didn’t mean they didn’t handle us a little too roughly.
My eyes adjust to the light coming from the edges of the curtains, and to my surprise, the man with dark hair, the one who recused me—Benedict, that’s his name—is asleep in the chair under the window. He hasn’t moved. Not once. He’s either been asleep, or like earlier today, just sitting in the dark, quietly watching me with kind eyes.Worriedeyes. Asking me if I needed anything. Bringing me water, juice, food. Offering to contact my parents. Offering to contact the police. He’s there, by my side, day after day.
And I don’t know why.
He stirs, taking a deep breath and rubbing his eyes with his hands. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans with lace-up boots. His hair hangs in front of his face, the top longer than the sides. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and I can smell the sweat from where I’m lying. He hasn’t changed—hasn’t showered or gone home.
He’s beenhere.
For five days straight.
At least, I think it’s been five days.
“Hey,” he says, his voice scratchy and weak from sleep. I don’t answer. I watch him from where I’m lying. Because of where I came from, I should be wary. I should be outraged about the man sleeping in my room. After all, it wasmenwho wronged me. And right now, there’s a strange man in my bedroom, watching me. “Would you like some breakfast?” he asks, his accent thick.French.Just like the men who raped me. He stands, stretching. Tall. Lean. He quickly pulls the curtains aside and I squint, trying to get a good glimpse of him before he goes downstairs. He turns to face me, smiling.
“I’d like to know who you are first.”
He hesitates for a second, rubbing his lower lip with his hand. The other hand slips into the pocket of his jeans.
