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Deep down I know they’re just things, but they’re my things. I left Aunt Darla’s with a pair of jeans, two shirts, two pairs of panties, and a bra. My backpack got stolen my third night on the streets and I went weeks without spare clothes or anything to call my own.
My things might have been ratty and old, but they were mine and now they’re gone, because three sociopathic assholes decided to steal me from my life, because they think I’m the bastard child of some guy I’ve never heard of.
One by one, they leave, walking into their own bedrooms and closing the doors behind them. I know it’s only an illusion of privacy, but I take it anyway. Circling the bed, I sit down on the floor, managing to pull myself into as small a ball as I can, and bury my face into my knees before the first sob bursts from my mouth.
I cry for my mom. For the dad I never knew, the aunt who didn’t want me, and all the asshole johns who tried to buy me when I was nothing more than a skinny little kid. I cry for the nights I was cold, wet, tired, hungry, and terrified huddled beneath sheets of cardboard to hide from the horrors of the night. I cry for the light I’d seen at the end of the tunnel when I finally got the job at Home Run and moved in with Monica. I cry for the freedom I fought hard for that was taken from me in the blink of an eye, and I cry for all of the things that were mine, that were a part of me. Each shitty, stupid item told a story about my survival, and now they’re gone.
I cry for so long that my eyes are gritty and swollen and my chest hurts from how tight I’ve been hugging my knees to try and stifle the sound of my sobs. This is the only show of weakness I’ll allow myself. From here on out, I’ll be strong until I’m away from here and the three men who had the audacity to steal my life.
Pulling in a shuddering breath, I wipe my face on my shirt, then lift my head, taking in the room. I heard the click of the lock on the door before they all left me alone, but I still push to my feet and walk silently to it, turning the handle, even though I know it won’t open. The large windows don’t open when I try them either, but even if they did, it’s a straight drop to the ground below and if the fall didn’t kill me, it’d certainly hurt me enough that fleeing would be impossible.
I didn’t take the time to really look at the space when they first brought me in here, but now, I walk the perimeter of the room, noticing for the first time that there are large double doors hidden behind wooden shutters.
When I turn the handle, the shutters easily slide back and I open the doors that lead out onto a large balcony. My heart starts to race as I step to the wall, looking down and hoping there’s a tree or something that I can climb down to escape. But instead of freedom, I find the face of a curious guard looking back up at me.
“Is everything okay, Mrs. Belova?” he asks, a gun hung in a shoulder holster clearly on display over his black polo shirt.
Hopes dashed, I turn and step back into the bedroom without responding to him, closing the doors behind me. I’m a prisoner, and as much as I hate to admit it, I won’t be escaping tonight. The logical side of my brain knows I shouldn’t give up, that if I bide my time, I can run at the first opportunity. But the terrified, desperate side of me withered into a pathetic heap at the sight of armed guards standing below my only possible escape route
Glancing at the ridiculously large bed, I eye it warily. I don’t know how many people they planned to have sleeping in that thing, but I’d take the tiniest queen mattress over having to get into the orgy bed.
Looking around, I contemplate curling back into my corner to sleep, but even hidden behind the bed, I’d still be easily seen if any of them leave their rooms. The door to the closet is still partially open, and I wander forward, peering inside again.
It’s a massive room, almost as big as the entire apartment Monica and I shared until a few days ago. One half of the room is split into three, with each section showing a slightly different style and clothing choice. The other half of the room is filled entirely with women’s clothes.
Refusing to even glance at the rails full of stuff that I will never think of as mine, I walk over to the vanity table, bending down to peer at the space beneath it. Nodding to myself, I tiptoe back into the bedroom and grab a single pillow and the knit throw from the bottom of the bed, then head back into the closet, closing the door behind me.
With the door shut, I instantly feel better. I’m not safe, and a door won’t keep me in, or them out, but the illusion of protection is enough to allow me to slow my breathing and let some of the tension bleed from my muscles.
The lights must be on sensors, because they brighten as I move, illuminating the racks of shoes, rails of dresses and clothes that I will never, ever wear. Kneeling down on the floor, I crawl into the small space beneath the vanity table, then drag the pillow and blanket in behind me.
The floor is wooden and hard, but it’s not even close to the most uncomfortable place I’ve slept and with the pillow beneath my head and the soft blanket wrapped around me, I drift off into an uneasy sleep, filled with dreams of three psychos chasing me, and always catching me no matter how fast I run.
“What is she doing?” a male voice asks, cracking my fragile veneer of sleep.
“She appears to be sleeping?” a different voice says dryly.
“She’s on the floor,” the first voice says derisively.
“Alena, are you well?”
“My name is not Alena,” I growl, not opening my eyes, because the moment I do, I’ll have to admit that this is real, not a nightmare. I’ll have to accept that I’m somewhere really far from home, with three dangerous strangers, and I’m just not ready to do that yet.
“Ali, Baby, why are you on the floor?” a third voice asks.
“I was sleeping, until y’all woke me up,” I hiss, eyes still squeezed tightly shut.
“Could you come out please?” Someone asks.
“No.”
“Alabama, you can come out of your own accord, or I can drag you out,” the fucking asshole Dimitri demands, his voice more familiar when he’s being a dick.
“Go away, I’ll come out when I’m ready,” I snap, like a petulant child.
I don’t hear him approach, but a second later firm fingers wrap around my wrist and ankle. My eyes snap open as I’m pulled out from beneath the safety of the vanity, and not released until I’m spalled across the closet floor, my eyes wide and looking up at the faces of the three fuckers above me.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” I spit, letting my head flop back to the floor with a thud.
