Izabel
A ring of keys jangles, and then the door to our prison opens; yellow light spills into the room, revealing the unevenness of the dirt floor, the holes and ridges rising up and down like little brown-capped waves; remnants of girls who had been here before us trying to dig their way out.
A woman walks in; Mexican, with long, bleach-blonde hair pulled into a thick braid behind her, and lipstick as red as that flashy shit Nora usually wears. There’s a scowl on her face, and a worn leather strap in her hand.
“Get up,” she says in perfect English.
Feigning fear and intimidation, Naeva and I lean forward onto our knees and try to get up on our own, but it’s difficult with our hands and legs bound, and the floor riddled with cavernous holes.
The woman jerks her head toward a man standing behind her. “Get them up,” she orders in perfect Spanish, and he moves in right away and comes toward us.
“Cut the ropes on their ankles,” she instructs, and then she looks right at me, switching back to English again. “What’s your name?”
I look up the rest of the way as the rope is cut from my ankles. “Lydia,” I answer.
“And yours?” she asks Naeva.
Naeva doesn’t raise her eyes. “Uma,” she says, a tremor in her voice that not even I can figure out if it’s real or not.
The woman grabs Naeva’s chin, turns her head to one side and then the other. She does the same to me, her eyes sweeping over the scar across my throat. She looks back and forth between us, contemplating.
“This one,” she tells the man about Naeva, “I’ll take with me to see the governess.” She looks at me now. “This one is damaged; she’ll never be sold. Kill her.”
My heart stops; Naeva’s head turns swiftly to face me.
“No, please!” Naeva falls to her knees beside me, reaches out her bound hands to the woman. “Please don’t kill her—please!” Is she faking the distress—honestly, I can’t tell. Surely Naeva knows I can get myself out of this. I think…OK, maybe I am a little scared. Fuck! I didn’t expect this moment to come so soon!
Concentrate, Izabel…calm and concentrate.
The leather strap falls across Naeva’s back with a sharp snap! that even stings me; Naeva falls onto her side, and groans in pain.
I see the flash of a blade as the man pulls a knife from a belt at his waist. I don’t move. Shouldn’t I be on the floor like Naeva, begging for my life? No, I realize in the most crucial moment—that’ll definitely get me killed.
The man approaches me, and I raise my head and round my chin and lock my jaw and look him right in the fucking eyes and it does exactly what I hoped it would do: it stumps them both. The man glances at the woman, and she at him.
“Go ahead,” I say boldly. “You’d be doing me a favor.” I can hear Naeva breathing heavily at my feet. And I can hear my heart beating in my ears. And I can hear Niklas’ voice in my head: “It’s a bad idea, Izzy—”, and Fredrik’s voice: “I agree with Niklas—”.
“Wait,” the woman tells the man, and hesitantly he lowers the knife.
She steps in front of him, and she looks at me, long and contemplatively, and at first, I avoid eye contact. She circles me, and I stand firm, unafraid, though deep down, I admit, I’m a little worried. I swallow, and the motion hurts my throat it’s so dry. She makes her way back to stand in front of me where she stops and looks me right in the eyes.
“You’re not suicidal,” she points out.
“I don’t care either way,” I say. “I just want out of this filth. And to take a piss. Either show me the way to the toilet, or kill me—either one would be a relief.”
“If you had to go so bad,” she says, “why didn’t you just piss on yourself? Or over there in the corner?”
I look her right in the eyes this time.
“I just said I wanted out of the filth,” I come back, “not to make more of it—toilet or knife.”
The woman blinks; she really has no idea what to do with me, but she doesn’t want to kill me. At least not yet.
She glances at Naeva on the floor at my feet.
“You know each other?” she asks me.
“Not really,” I say.
“But she knows you enough to beg for your life; risk her own to stand up for you.”
“Weakness does that to people,” I say. “I couldn’t care less what happens to her.”
The woman raises a finely-groomed brow.
“Then hit her,” she challenges.
Without hesitating, I slam my knee into Naeva’s face; she falls over into the dirt.
I look at the woman, as poker-faced and unintimidated as before. “Toilet or knife,” I repeat, getting irritated.
The woman smiles, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s impressed, or pissed.
“Tie her legs back up,” she tells the man. “Let’s see how long the bitch can take it before she pisses herself.”
The man comes at me again, and I know I could easily take that knife from him, kill them both, and get myself and Naeva out of here; but alas, getting out isn’t what I came here for.
I pretend to struggle against the man; he thrusts the knife blade against my throat, threatening me so I’ll be still, and eventually I do. And in moments, I’m back to being unable to stand much less walk, much less squat in a corner somewhere and pee. The woman might get what she wanted, after all—I guess I’d rather pee on myself than die.
Shooting her with a hard, piercing look, the woman smiles at me again in response, pulls on Naeva’s elbow and escorts her roughly out of the room. The man closes and then locks the door behind him, shutting out the light, and leaving me alone with my thoughts.
And I just let the pee flow, shaking my damn head at myself. There’s no way I’m going to hold it any longer out of pride, or protest—doesn’t hurt anybody but me.