Page 16 of Reclaimed

Wires bite into my skin as my fingers wrap around them and rip them off. I shudder a breath as I throw them to the ground, stomping the heel of my boot onto the screen until it's beyond repair. The tightness in my throat slowly ebbs the longer I stare at the remnants.

My jaw flexes as I spit on the pieces. Track that, Sasquatch.

Having wasted more than enough energy on the tracker, I start across the lot, blood already crusting over the handful of jab marks on my wrist. It's ironic that my now naked arm offers me concealment. There's a sentiment of victory in that thought, but also a taunt of embarrassment.

Why didn't it occur to me to remove it sooner?

Even if I thought it wasn't tracing me, it was still a shackle. Broadcasting my status as property– as A311 and not a person. Not as Jersey.

The thought gives me pause. Maybe that's why the destination doesn't matter as much as creating distance; a separation from the world designed solely for people like me to fight to survive in, never to thrive.

At the edge of the property, a corner of rusted chain link fence curls away from a post in its own act of defiance. Shoving the duffle through first, I crawl through the opening on my hands and knees, dusting off my jeans as I straighten on the other side and stand. The dirt brushes away with ease, but the streak of deep crimson from the letter opener is encrusted on my thigh. So much for clean clothes.

My teeth sink repeatedly into a raw spot on the inside of my cheek as I take in my surroundings. To my left, I spot a cluster of lights and buildings, and I'm betting it's one of the business hubs in the Fringe. Well, I'm hoping it is, anyway.

Call it luck or cosmic pity, but as boarded up buildings give way to storefronts, a neon pawn shop sign is the first thing I see.

An electronic chirp announces my entrance as I step inside, the steel-barred door clanging shut behind me. Old tablets and used air fryers line one wall, mismatched furniture crowding the other. Glass display cases filled with trinkets and comics flank my sides as I move towards the register.

"What can I do for you, doll?" a middle-aged man asks as he emerges from the back office. His thinning hair is slicked back with enough grease to rival the stains blotching his dingy undershirt, but who am I to judge? I'm a fugitive slinging looted goods.

"I, uh, just need some money," I say, hoisting the flowered duffle bag up onto the counter.

He rolls a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, his gaze drifting from the bag to me before he gives a curt nod. "Let ole' Sal here see what you got."

Dragging back the zipper, I pull each item out, covering the surface in a haphazard pile of everyday crap. "What can I get for all this?"

"I'll run the numbers," Sal says with a dry laugh. "Wait here."

With a tight-lipped smile, I tip my chin in acknowledgment as he moves to his computer, shaking his head as he starts typing.

Shifting my weight, I shove my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie and amble past shelves lined with the discarded pieces of other people's lives. Funny how this world has reduced the value of life to secondhand inventory. You either sell what you have to survive another day, or you get sold instead. Sometimes you can sell everything you’ve got– even your soul– and still come up short.

Absentmindedly, my hand drifts to my collar, fingers toying with the heart-shaped locket around my neck. It’s the only possession I have to my name, and it's not even mine, it was hers.

Commander Martin gave it to me the first time he took me. The first night he brought me home, he was kind. We had a nice dinner. Cornish hens, roasted carrots, and wine– so much wine. I even had a glass while I sat in a giant soaker tub with lavender scented bubbles up to my chin. I could barely stand when it came time to get out, but he was there to help me, slowly caressing my body with a fluffy towel as I giggled nonstop. After, he led me to the bedroom, setting me on the bed as he pulled out a small velvet box.

He told me how he gave it to Grace on their first anniversary. How she wore it almost everyday. But as she got sicker, she stopped wearing it. Too many procedures, too many days in and out of hospitals… it was just easier for her to leave it off. When she passed, it was one of the last tangible pieces of her– and now he was giving it to me, to make this night special. Like somehow regifted jewelry would atone for what he was about to do to me. In my drunken stupor, it seemed sweet. Hell, I remember even feeling bad for him as his eyes glassed over while he secured the clasp and the cold metal fell between my breasts.

But it was never for me; never to make me feel special. Everything about that night was for him. The wine to dull my senses, the bath to relax my body, and a sentimental gift to make a naive girl feel beholden to a man she hardly knew. A man who, after all the build up, still tore into me with no regard for anyone but himself. No matter how hard I cried and pleaded for him to stop, he didn’t. After he finished, he tucked himself away and told me to wear the locket at all times. He didn't even look at me as he left me there bleeding on the bed.

I was a walking shrine to the love of his life, but there was never any love for mine.

"How's $75?" Sal asks, his voice coaxing my fingers away from the locket.

"What?" I question, voice cracking in the slightest as I swallow thickly and return to the counter.

"I'll give ya $75 for everything," he says.

"No, I understand that." I roll my eyes. "But we both know that's a lowball offer."

"Do you know how long I have to carry stock?" he replies. "These items will sit around for weeks before they sell. And I'll probably end up knockin' off a few bucks at the time of sale."

"But you said it yourself," I fire back, arms folding across my chest as I raise a brow. "You will sell them."

Sal's palms splay across the counter as he leans forward with a sigh. "How much ya need, sweetheart?"

"Enough to get away," I murmur without thinking.