I look around the small room, for the one hundredth millionth time. Nothing has changed. It’s still nothing but a 4’ x 6’ box—if that. The floor I’m sitting on is rough lumber. I try not to move a lot, because if I do so I’ve learned I get splinters and in places I truly don’t want them. There’s a little light filtering in from the top of the box. It’s coming in through the hole between the jagged wooden planks.

I moan as I move, my body sore from staying in basically the same position for a month and other things. When I first came to, after being unconscious, I panicked. Anyone would have, but it was worse for me because I’m afraid of small enclosed places. So when I say I panicked, I mean I freaked-the-fuck-out. So much so that they opened the top of my “crate” and when I lunged at them, they beat me back down—first with fists and then with a crowbar. I’m pretty sure I have a broken arm. I know my eye is swollen shut and infected—if the burning sensation I feel is anything to go by. It hurts to breathe so I’m not entirely sure what shape my ribs are in.

I’ve also lost track of how long I’ve been here. Everything is a blur from the moment I stepped outside the convent. I tried to keep count at first. Trying to judge the shift from day into night by the actions of people outside and how many meals they brought me. I think they bring one meal a day and it’s usually toward the evening. I know it’s evening when they feed me because there’s a skylight above me and when they take the top off, it’s the first thing I see.

The light hurts my eyes when they take the top off—a product of staying here in the dark for so long. I smell. There’s no way to get around it. There’s been no bathing, no personal hygiene concerns at all. There’s only me… my wooden prison and small bucket across from me that I’ve been forced to use as a toilet. It stinks—though thankfully it is emptied once a day.

I’m living like a dog in a pound… probably worse.

I think I have a fever. I can’t be sure. I’m always cold, but today I’m dizzy—even disoriented. I can hear voices around me, but I’m having trouble concentrating on them. I shake my head hoping to focus, but I end up moaning as the room spins harder.

“Sounds like the drugs are working.”

“About time. Jesus, I almost dread pulling her out of there. She smells like shit.”

I swallow down the bile that rises as I hear them talk about me. I instinctively know they’re talking about me, but I can’t…

“You would too if you’ve been in a box for a month. Stop your bitching and help me pull her out. The boss will be here today and he wants to see the merchandise.”

“Dude, what’s the endgame here? Do we even know? What the hell does he have planned?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

“But—”

“You’re getting a shit load of money for doing very little. Stop asking fucking questions. In our line of work that’s a sure way to end up dead.”

“Fine. Whatever. It seems a little screwed up if you ask me.”

“Nobody’s asking you shit. Let’s pull her out of the pen and clean her up. Boss wants her in those clothes he sent over.”

“Now that part I won’t mind.”

“What’s that?” I hear one of them ask as the top of my crate begins to move.

“Strippin’ the bitch. You see those Double Ds she’s packing? Won’t mind playing with those babies at all—not after we get rid of the smell.”

“Do whatever makes you happy. Just remember your dick don’t get in her, that’s our only rule.”

“Not like he’d know. Maybe that mouth…”

His words make the bile rush back and I vomit as the bright light from above pours inside my hell.