Page 3 of UnTrained: Volume One
But I know one thing.
"They break you," I finally say, keeping my voice low. "Until you're what they want."
She shudders, wrapping her arms around herself. "I won’t let them."
I almost smile at that. I said the same thing once.
“Is it my fault?” she whispers.
Her voice is so soft I almost miss her words. But even when I register them, I pretend not to hear, because I don’t have an answer to that question.
So instead, we sit in silence until the doorknob turns again.
“Come on. We don’t have all day.” The voice is rough, just like the hands that grab beneath my arms to yank me to stand.
I don’t recognize the two men that enter the small room, but that’s nothing new. They match every other man, right down to the all-black outfit and mask covering their nose and mouth.
“Where are you taking us?” the other girl asks.
I know better than to question them. I should have warned her. I cringe as one of the men slaps her across the face.
“Shut up, whore,” he says. “You’ve been sold.”
The wordsoldseems to hit her like ice water. I watch her face crumple, watches her stumble backward until her spine meets the concrete wall. The sound echoes through the small space—a hollow thud that seems to reverberate in my own chest.
I’m not ready for this, either. But it’s not a surprise.
All those weeks of training, of learning to kneel perfectly. To keep my eyes downcast unless instructed otherwise. To accept correction without flinching.
They haven’t been breaking me for their own use. They’re preparing me for market.
The rough hands grip my arm again, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my elbow. I don’t resist as they guide me toward the door. My legs feel disconnected from my body, moving without my conscious direction.
Behind me, I can hear the other girl's ragged breathing, the shuffle of bare feet on concrete.
The hallway stretches ahead of us, longer than I remember. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in harsh white angles. The air tastes metallic on my tongue, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
I force myself to breathe out slowly through my nose.
Each step forward as they guide me down a hallway feels like walking deeper underwater. The pressure building in my ears, my lungs working harder against the weight of inevitability.
We turn a corner, one I've never seen before. The walls here are different. They’re cleaner, painted a sickly yellow instead of institutional gray. Someone has tried to make this place look less like a prison.
The thought makes my stomach churn.
A heavy door marked with a red exit sign looms ahead. Beyond it, I can hear engines running. Vehicles waiting.
The girl behind me makes a sound—part sob, part whimper. I want to turn around, to offer some comfort, but my neck feels locked in place. Looking back won't help either of us now.
The door swings open, and sunlight hits my face. I squint against the brightness. My eyes water after being used to the darkness and artificial light for so long.
A black van idles at the curb. Unmarked, of course.
I try to see the driver as we approach, but his head is turned away, like he can’t bear to see what he’s picking up.
He must have done this before.
When we reach the van, one of the guards slides open the rear door, revealing a cargo space.
