Page 13 of Romania
“Lessa, you go get rest,” Pamela ordered.
“Glad to,” Lessa said, and we swapped ends.
I sat on the steel floor near the doors. There were nine others, and we’d be the next to go out to the bathroom when the masked men came to get us. Though, with the amount of water we drank, which was hardly any, we didn’t need to go often. But still, it was good to stretch our legs outside with some fresh air.
I often thought about my family. About how they were dealing, what were they doing, and what did they have for dinner or lunch or breakfast.
God, I’d sell a body part for an iced chocolate.
So far, the masked men had been manageable to deal with. They still needed to be punished for taking us, for putting us through this vile ordeal that made me angry and sick and confused and upset and feel too much all at the same time where I had to take big gulps of air to control the anger burning under my skin, pushing me to lash out.
But I couldn’t.
It wasn’t the time.
Will it ever be the time?
Yes, it would. I had to have faith.
Something would happen, and that was when I’d act.
So even though the masked men never touched us—they just leered or threatened or shoved us if we moved too slow—they’d still pay for being involved.
Great, now I’d worked myself up. I needed to burn off some energy to stop all the thoughts rushing through my mind. I rolled, slapping my hands to the steel floor and straightening myself out into a plank.
“One,” I muttered to myself, counting each push-up to settle my mind.
Pamela scoffed. “Don’t you ever stop?”
No, I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
If I stopped, I’d be lost to all my thoughts, and my mind wouldn’t shut up. I’d overthink something too much, which could lead to a mistake.
Working out helped keep me fit and calmed my mind.
I didn’t exercise for whoever my buyer was.
The guards had been talking the other day just outside the doors when we’d learned that a lot of us did have “owners,” in America. I was one of them, and the owners had somehow seen a photo or a newspaper article or a website and had wanted to own us for whatever perverted reason they had.
We’d never see them, though.
I’d make sure of it somehow.
Still, I hoped that the organisers and whoever these buyers were got taught a lesson. One that involved a lot of pain.
I could be vicious when I wanted to be. When certain times called for it. Like this situation.
But most of the time I was as sweet as pie. I loved life and people and food.
God, I wanted food.
Mashed potatoes.
Carbonara.
Chicken schnitzel.
