in his heavily accented voice. His tone brooks no room for argument. I try to sit up but my body protests with every movement I make. Tears sting my eyes as pain tears through my head and ribs. Every bone feels like it’s been broken repeatedly. I feel beaten and battered—like I’ve been run over by a semi-truck.
The large man slides his arms around me and picks me up roughly, uncaring that I’m in pain. I can feel the fresh wounds on my back break open and the movement makes me cry out from the friction of his body rubbing against mine with each step he takes. He carries me out of the basement and up a small, creaky, wooden set of stairs into the washroom. He flings my weak body down and tosses a soap bar and a tattered towel at me.
“Undress,” is all he says. His thick Arab accent wrapping around me.
I take a timid step back and protectively wrap my arms around myself, refusing to take my undergarments off, the only thing shielding me from his advances. Dread creeps through my veins and travels throughout the rest of my body. He stalks toward me, getting in my face, and grinds out harshly, “Undress before you anger me you, filthy dog!”
I suck in a sob, and shakily let the torn shirt fall off my shoulders and onto the ground in a heap of material. I bite down harshly on my bottom lip to stop any noises from escaping.
He starts running the filthy bath water and surprisingly helps me step inside. He shoves the soap bar into my hand with zero sympathy.
“Wash yourself as best as you can. Whatever you can’t clean, I will.”
I sit frozen. Unable to force my limbs to move. In all the time I’ve been here, I haven’t had the pleasure of bathing, not even once. But this? This isn’t how I wanted it.
“Now!” He barks, and my body jolts in fear. My bottom lip trembles and I quickly run the soap bar under the water and let it lather in my shaky hands. The tub water is already a filthy brown color that makes me curl into myself with shame.
How did I fall so far?
I clean my private areas first, as discreetly as I can and try to get every other place as best as possible, so he won’t have to touch me. I look up into his impatient face.
“I can’t reach my back,” I whisper. His nostrils flare at the inconvenience, his lips thinning into a grim line. He bends forward and snatches the soap bar out of my hand roughly. He scrapes the bar onto my back, over the abrasions and I let out a strangled cry from the stinging pain as the cheap soap enters my wounds. Apathy clouds his features as he washes my filthy hair with the soap.
Once finished in the bath, he sets out a clean, off-white nightgown and orders me to change. He chucks a wooden paddle brush at me and I stare down at it in surprise and wonder. It’s not like I’ve never seen a hair brush before, but in all my time here I haven’t so much as seen anything but four concrete walls and a sodden, dirty mattress. The brush looks filthy, and old, the bristles rough and bent. I stare up at him blankly.
They’re letting me brush my hair? I never get to brush my hair. My brows crease in confusion.
“You must look clean for the auction.” Is all he says by way of explanation. The frown on my face deepens.
“Auction?” I whisper in pure confusion. He turns to me and grips my forearm shoving me toward the fresh pile of clothes.
“You will be chosen by the highest bidder. A buyer will choose his prize as his pet, to do with as he pleases. Now dress, kalb!” He shouts angrily as he shoves the clean nightgown into my clammy hands.
The room suddenly tips off its axis. My stomach flips violently, and I suck in a ragged breath. My eyes burn with a fresh wave of tears and my ears start ringing. I get a sharp pain in my chest and double over trying to catch my breath.
“No, no, no, no, no.” Is all I manage to get out. I realize I’m hyperventilating, unable to control my breathing. I stumble away from him on shaky legs, trying to find a way to escape. My eyes dart everywhere much like a frightened animal.
Sold into