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“Oh, and don’t forget to take off the glasses. Mr. Miller doesn’t like those.”
“Of course,” I say.
After exiting Dolly’s office, I turn left and hurry down the hallway, passing the doors to other rooms. I’m one of five girls here at the moment. There used to be six of us, but two days ago, one of the girls disappeared. Since I try to keep to myself, I didn’t know her other than seeing her in passing. I remember she had long blonde hair which she wore braided down her back. No one knows what happened, but I heard the other girls gossiping about her meeting with a client who is known to be rough.
I reach the last door at the end of the hallway and walk inside. After a quick look around to make sure my roommate isn’t here, I rush toward the small bathroom on the other side of the room. I lock the door and turn toward the toilet.
Opening my right hand, I stare at the white pill in my palm. Such a small thing. Harmless looking. Who would guess that something so tiny can keep a person willfully enslaved, living in a prison without bars? It would be so easy to put it into my mouth and just . . . let go.
It is always the same setup. One pill before the meeting with the client. Three more after I’m done. The first one is meant to keep me high and, therefore, more obedient. It doesn’t make it hurt less, but it does make me not care. It’s also highly addictive. If I take it, it will ensure I’ll come rushing back for the three pills afterward to satisfy the craving brought on by the first. The cycle would repeat. Again, and again. Keeping my brain in a haze, constantly on some level of high, needing more each time, not capable of thinking about anything else.
An addict, that’s what I’ve become. Just like the rest of the girls here.
I squeeze the pill in my hand, then throw it into the bowl and flush it. The pill makes two circles before disappearing down the drain, but I keep standing there, staring into the toilet.
It’s been six days since I stopped taking the drugs. It happened by accident. I caught stomach flu last week, and for three days, I vomited nonstop. My body wouldn’t keep anything inside, including the pills Dolly continued to shove down my throat. By the time I felt better, my brain was clear of the drug-induced stupor for the first time in two months.
That day was the hardest. Even though I was constantly cold—God, I don’t ever remember being so cold in my life—I was sweating. Everything hurt. My head, my legs, my arms. It was like every single bone in my body had been shattered. And then there were the tremors. I tried to control the shaking for fear my teeth would fracture, but couldn’t. Dolly thought it was the fever finally breaking, but it wasn’t. It was withdrawal. The urge to just swallow the pills she gave me was almost too much to fight, and only pure stubbornness kept me from succumbing.
It got easier after that. I still randomly got the chills, but it was nowhere near what I experienced that first drug-free day, and my limbs and head hurt significantly less. I pretended to swallow the pills and made sure to act the same as I did before, begging for more all the time, while secretly throwing the drugs away. Amazingly, my deception worked. Now it’s just a question of how long I’ll be able to keep the pretense before someone notices.
I take off my glasses and leave them next to the sink. They aren’t even the right prescription, just something Dolly got me so I would stop stumbling and squinting. My own were lost during my last night in New York.
I look away from the reminder, take off my clothes, and step inside the shower stall. Turning the water to scorching hot, I move under the spray and close my eyes. There is a washcloth on the small shelf to my right. I take it and scrub my skin until it’s red, but it doesn’t help. I still feel filthy.
I don’t understand why I haven’t fought harder. Yes, the drugs kept my brain in a haze, but I’ve always been aware of what was happening. Still, I’ve just . . . capitulated. Let them sell me, night after night, to rich men who are willing to pay an enormous amount of money to fuck a pretty, polished doll. Because that’s what we are. They wax us, have our nails and hair done, and make sure we wear expensive clothes. The full face of makeup is mandatory, and it smears quite nicely when a girl cries after the session. So many of the men like to see us break.
I haven’t cried once. Maybe something broke inside me that first night. A million particles of my fractured soul mixed with the snow and blood. I just didn’t care anymore.
The driver comes to pick me up an hour later, and during the drive, I stare blankly through the window at the people rushing along the unfamiliar sidewalks. When I was taken, at first I thought I was being held somewhere on the outskirts of New York, but I now know that I’ve ended up in Chicago. As I watch “normal life” passing me by, for the first time in two months, I’m tempted to grab the handle and try to escape. I’m sickened at the realization that it’s taken me this long to think about running away. But I consider it now. I want to feel clean again. That may never happen, but I want to try.
I’ve heard what they do to girls who try to escape. As long as we are obedient, we get the pills, because high-paying clients don’t like girls with needle marks on their bodies. But the moment a girl creates problems, they switch to the syringe. And it’s over. Was that what happened to the girl who disappeared?
Leaning back in the seat, I close my eyes and exhale. I’ll keep pretending I’m still an obedient little slut, ready to endure everything and wait for my opportunity. I will have only one chance, so I better make sure it counts.
* * *
They always wear suits.
I regard the man sitting on the edge of the bed in this fancy room where the driver escorted me. Late fifties. Receding hairline. He’s wearing an impeccable gray suit and an expensive watch on his wrist. Two phones on the nightstand. Probably a banker. Again.
The room is as expected for a client like him. Heavy luxury curtains in deep red—the color of blood—and a four-poster bed with black silk sheets to hide the bloodstains. A tall lamp in each corner and a wooden mobile bar stocked with different liquors. Only the best labels, of course. I’ve been in this room once before, but I remember that the bathroom is equally chic, with a large tub and a shower. There’s a first aid kit under the sink there. The driver used it because the client I was with that night left me with a nasty cut on my lip.
Mr. Miller motions for me to approach. I close the distance between us and stand between his legs, trying to detach myself from what will follow. It was much easier with the pills.
“Pretty,” he says and places his palm on my thigh just below the hem of my short white dress. Seems like it’s the favorite color of every client. “How old are you?”
“I’m eighteen, Mr. Miller.”
“So young.” His hand travels upward, pulling my dress. “Call me Jonny.”
“Yes, Jonny,” I mutter.
“Dolly said your name is Daisy. Small and sweet. Fitting.” A shiver passes over my body upon hearing the name they gave me because they found my own too unusual. I despise it. Just hearing it makes me want to throw up.
Mr. Miller lifts my dress over my head and throws it onto the floor. It falls as a small white bundle at my feet. I don’t know why, but clients removing my dress has always hit me harder than them taking off my panties. Each time it happens, it feels like the last layer of my defense is stripped away from me. I shudder.
“Do you find me attractive, little Daisy?” he circles my waist with his hands.
