Icy coldness from the concrete floor seeps through my bare feet and into my bones. For a moment I can’t recall where I am. My haze starts to clear and my eyes adjust to the light or lack thereof. I feel stuck in my head. One misstep and I could get lost in the darkness forever. I need to stay clever. Alert. Which is harder when Small Man pays me a visit. I call him that because of his small shoes. Shoes I can see when I look down my nose through the gap of the blindfold. I stay foggier longer. My brain stays thick with illusions and confusion. When I feel panic set in I can almost sense Mike near me. In a dream-like state I can feel his palm on my chest and mine on his. Feel my breath, he says. And I can. Slow and steady. Rhythmic and sure.

The door opens, I hear the hinges. I tilt my head up. I watch from under my blindfold as his feet move closer to me. I can’t crane my neck high enough to make eye contact with whoever it is, although I desperately want to. I want to look straight into the eyes of this asshole. His voice is low and jovial, as though discussing which movie we should go see.

“I’ve done a lot of reading about you, Aubry. You’re all over the news.” A chill races up my spine.

“You aren’t going to hurt me, are you?” My voice is gritty with disuse. I sound sluggish, feel thick with brain fog. I don't know whether it's the drugs or this room or what it is anymore.

I can feel him circling me. “Not unless you want me to.”

“I’m all set, thanks.” My voice is a little louder. A little wild. I refuse to let him have any power over me. I tremble and twitch as he kisses the corner of my lips. My lips are always chapped to shreds now. Sometimes there are little cracks where they start to bleed. I’m terrified this asshole’s just spread something to me. A lingering reminder of my time here that I’ll be left with long after I escape.

My arm is pulled out and they inject something into me. The entire world disappears. I float. Or glide. Maybe it’s more like gliding. I like the feeling. It’s nice, warm and usually I’m cold and scared. I’m in the sunlight. I close my eyes and he appears. Over six feet tall; with the body of an athlete, direct blue eyes, black curly hair, and skin the color of coffee. He has the disarming quality of not really being aware of just how good-looking he is. It knocks people off balance. It knocked me off balance.  Expecting conceit, I found courtesy instead. Expecting arrogance, I found a man quick to laugh and who made me laugh. That was my favorite thing about Mike, the way he made me laugh. The very night I met him, he swept me off my feet. He kissed me while I laughed. Is that even a thing? A laugh-kiss? I decide yes, it’s a thing. A very perfect kind of thing. He’s the one I can’t forget. He’s in my bones, here in the dark with me.

Survival. It isn’t pretty, but it’s all I have. I feel like I’m in an alternate reality. An iteration of my life. Nothing is clear. There's a struggle within. A war in my head. A tear in my heart. As if I'm in a dream. An elaborate daydream, because none of this can be real. These things don't happen to normal people. But then I think of Nora and I know; these things do happen to good, normal people.

My father flashes in my mind. But I can’t picture his face. I can’t recall many details about him anymore. I don’t remember the sound of his laugh or the finer details of his features anymore. Sometimes at night I dream about him—so many years later. Even in my dreams, I can’t see his face. He is just a black shadow-man stalking around. Why it’s not my mom in my dreams, I don’t know. She’s my rock. I feel guilty about the people, the friends, the family that I’m not thinking of. It’s a strange kind of guilt. It chips away at me from the inside, working its way out. Think about your mother, Aubry. Think more about your sister, about Nora. Instead, it is Mike who most often holes up in my mind. Stop this foolish obsession with a man you weren’t even with.

I can hear everything that happens to the girls in the rooms on either side of me. I hear their pleas, the hot burn of shame spreads in my chest. The way they beg. The way they scream. Twice now I’ve vomited just from the sounds they make while those men take them. The sound of boots on concrete, the zip of a zipper and the jangle of a belt buckle make me shiver. I'm feverish with rage but I know the simple act of paying attention can take you a long way—so I pay attention. My heart beats like a drum. I haven’t been used the way the other girls have. I don’t know why. I’m talking to myself. I lie shivering and go back and forth in my mind, trying to figure it all out. A feeling of foreboding captures me. Maybe they are saving me for something different. Something more sinister. The days the Small Man comes are the easiest, though I don’t like admitting that to myself. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to the frequency or times of his visits. I am never drugged when the other girls are being used. It's as if they want me to be aware of what could happen to me. So although I struggle to keep fighting—internally—when Small Man does visit, I take his offering without struggle. It's a sick escape but the only one I have. In that regard, he doesn’t come enough.

I try to rub my dripping nose on my shoulder but all it does is smear the drip around. I dip my head and reach my fingers up and manage to itch the spot on my bridge that’s been driving me crazy. Boots echo. Maybe it is Small Man, he hasn’t visited me in days. The lock sounds. I hear the door swing open. I don’t move from my chair. I wait, patiently. I don’t even flinch. My pride, still ever-present, even now. They can break my body, but no one can take my mind. It belongs only to me.

The blindfold is removed. The bulbous, broken-veined nose man is back. He takes my chin in his hand and smiles at me. I straighten my shoulders.

“We’ve found a home for you, fighter.” His accent is thick. He regards me as if I am a prize. As if I am a unique being he’s never encountered before. “I’m almost sad to let you go.” He tilts his head at me curiously. It is a power-hungry perusal that’s meant to make me quake.

“I have a home,” I state. I will not let these dark dwelling demons, these men who prey on insecurities and weakness, make me shiver in fear.

“Now, you have new home,” he says, still grinning. He sniffs the air around me and makes a sour face. “You cannot travel like this.” He turns to the guards, “Wash her before packing.” His words are a whip. They leave a physical sting.

“Packing?” I ask, willing my voice not to tremble.

He runs a hand through my hair before walking away. I jump up and sprint to the door. It closes in my face. I bang on it. I pound on the cold metal until my energy fizzles out. Two sandwiches a day and a bottle of water don’t go far. I’m weak. I’ve lost enough weight that my bra and panties are loose. I don’t know how bad I look because it’s always dark in here.

The darkness messes with your brain. It warps your senses. People rave about those float tanks, about how the sensory deprivation is relaxing and de-stressing. I can tell you this much. For an hour, perhaps, after that, you just start to go batshit crazy. I know crazy well. When Nora was missing, I realized what crazy felt like. I went through so many stages; checking my cell constantly to see if she’d tried to make contact, crying uncontrollably throughout the day, grieving for my best friend and trying to move forward with life, with college. But through all my stages of feeling like I was losing my mind, my mom was always there. She lifted me up, set me back on track and calmed my soul. But this crazy feeling takes root with no hope of control. I don’t have my mom here to guide me. I don’t have anyone. I try to channel my memories of her. To focus on the tips she gave me from that horrible time. I try to use those coping mechanisms now. It rarely works.

When dinner comes, so does Small Man. He comes with dinner a couple times a week. He stabs my arm with something that makes me forget things. Heroin, I think. My face turns beet red with humiliation. I’m excited for it. I crave it. I know I should be terrified but I can’t muster the correct reaction. Anticipation courses through me. I see his grin as I stick out my arm eagerly and I’m repulsed by myself.

A scream rings out. I shudder and wonder what made her yell. A door slams in the distance. It’s a sick kind of misery listening to those around you be tortured. I try to keep them happy. When their screams and pleas end, I sing, at the top of my lungs, the song, Woman. I repeat the song until I hear the wails dull to sniffles and eventually to silence. It’s the only way I know how to let them know that we’re not alone here. That although we’re isolated, we’re still together. Especially on the nights Small Man comes. I get happy enough to sing without caring. I sing and sing and sing. Sometimes in the morning, I wake with a scratchy throat but it’s worth it. The others can hear me. We’re not isolated. Not totally. If we can sing.

There are moments when I first wake up and I’m still there. Still back with my friends and family. My mom’s wide smile right next to me, her one crooked tooth a soothing sight. Nora, spouting off big words that I don’t know in her small but firm voice, a hint of a smile on her face and Aimee, arms loaded with school books, blowing her bangs from her face before letting out a little squeal of joy when she sees me. And when I get up, Mike’s there waiting for me. And I’m so excited to hug him and hear his voice that I sprint toward him. But I can never make it. When I turn back to everyone else, they blur and fizzle away like a bath bomb in water.

A bird-like lady appears in my doorway flanked by two guards, her eyes are sharp but her smile’s welcoming. She looks like a stiff wind could blow her over. And instinct tells me to wish it would. I'd almost rather be blindfolded again.

“Forty-nine, hello,” she says. I wrinkle my face at her. She gives me a soft huff of laughter, little more than a breath, it eases the knot in my chest. It’s bizarre how I can feel simultaneously better and worse in a moment like this. “That’s your number, dear. What we call you.”

“My name is—”

“You don’t have a name,” she says, speaking over me harshly. I sit on the moment, let it sink down to my bones, as if there’s an answer to be found there.

“I do have a name,” I state. She clucks her tongue at me as she approaches. She circles me slowly, analyzing me. It’s unnerving.  She fingers my hair and makes a tsk-ing sound. She pokes my rib and I jump in my seat. Keys jingle, and for the first time in a month, I think, my wrists are unshackled. The waist chain and cuffs hit the floor loudly.

“You’ll do well to remember your number and place. Girls who don’t tend not to last long.”

I suck in a deep breath before blowing it out. “Last long where?”

“Oh that doesn’t matter much, now does it? All you need to know is this: You’re forty-nine. You do not speak unless spoken to and you always,” she lifts my chin up with a bony finger, “always do what’s asked of you.” Patronizing. It sends a trickle of annoyance up my neck, but it does the trick.  My mind is so quiet. Like, quieter than it’s ever been. It’s weird.

I shake my head from her grasp. “I’m not a slave.”

She huffs out a laugh. “You’re not exactly free either, are you now?” She motions for the men behind her. “I’ll need the full kit.” One man nods and leaves while the other reaches outside the door and hands the mysterious bird-like woman a shower caddy. She whips around and sets it near my feet.

“I can’t do anything about your weight, but I can make you more presentable.”

I don’t have the balls to ask her ‘presentable for what’ so I stay quiet. She brushes out my knotted hair, taking her time. It almost feels nice. She twists it up and pins it securely atop my head when the second man returns. He’s got a bucket, washcloth, soap and garment bag.

“What’s your number?” I ask her when she wrings the cloth out. The hot water is a relief against my clammy skin and I almost moan with pleasure.

She snickers at me. “I don’t have a number. They call me Finch. Take off your underwear,” she says. The guards smirk but turn their backs to me. Confusion settles deep in my gut, but I do as I’m told. I let my panties drop to the floor before finagling my bra off. Finch looks like she couldn’t care less. I snort as she washes my chest. My first thought was that she was bird-like. Her hands, the washcloth, along with the warm water glide over my skin, leaving no crease or fold unclean. It is degrading but it’s not done in a sexual manner. In fact, it’s robotic. She takes her time lathering me with sudsy water and rinsing me. I’m given a robe to wear when she’s done.

Her face is a mask of indifference. “Sit.” I sit. She rubs lotion on my arms, followed by my legs. She cocks her head left then right. From the bottom of the caddy she pulls out tweezers and attacks my eyebrows.

“Why are you doing all this?” I ask.

“If I were anyone else, that question would earn you a slap. You don’t speak unless spoken to.”

I shake my head, preventing her from plucking anymore brows.

“Boys, come,” she says calmly. The guards approach quickly and I freeze. “Hold her steady.” A pair of large hands clamps my head while another grips my shoulders. “We can do this the nice way or the difficult way,” Finch says. I blink rapidly in response. She resumes her work on my, apparently, hairy face. After long moments, I feel as though I might pass out from holding my breath. Finch pulls back and inspects her work. She nods once in approval.

The guards retreat and I relax slightly. “We’re almost done.” She checks her watch before hustling to the caddy. She returns with a small tube. Like a lipstick. She pulls the cover off with finesse, the popping sound echoes off the walls of the empty room. She leans in and coats my lips in the bright red. “There.”

She pulls out a cigarette and lights it. I watch the smoke form a murky cloud in front of her face before it dissipates.

“Now what?” I ask. She sighs at me and shakes her head. She pulls on her cigarette again.

“Now we ship you.” I recoil at her words, jaw drawn in toward neck. She puts the stub of her cigarette out on the sole of her shoe. Straightening, she turns on her heel and struts out of the room.

“Wait, what? Ship me where? Why am I cleaned up?” My questions fall on deaf ears. There’s no response. One of the guards approaches with a grin. It’s smarmy and scary and I want him to stay where he is. I stand. He leers. I pull my robe closed tight and move behind the chair. He laughs at me.

“What you think that chair’s gonna do?” he asks. I brace myself for what I think he’s going to do. This is my one chance. My last chance. I have to make it count. His arm snaps out at me. I lean backward and twist. He groans as he misses. I draw a sharp breath and start to scream, but an arm comes up against my throat. Pain blossoms, spreading out like a spider web through my body.

I forgot about the other man. Stupid Aubry. Kill me, I think. If I wake up someplace new, I don’t know how I’ll survive. How I’ll muster what it takes—again—to fight. Just kill me now. I struggle, but the pressure from the arm remains firm, and I fall unconscious.