I heard some sort of latch creak open and then smelled dank damp air as we descended. I fought with renewed passion, knowing they were taking me back into the confinement room I’d been in with Josef. Underground. Probably soundproof. My fighting earned me a ringing slap on the side of the head. They threw me on the dirt floor and the door slammed. I ripped off my blindfold and gag.
In that moment I felt like a deranged animal. I attacked the door, yanking on the handle and yelling as loudly as I could. I kicked the door with my bare feet, punched it, clawed at it, beat it with everything I had, all the while screaming like a banshee. When my whole body was thrumming with self-inflicted injuries and my throat was hoarse, I dropped to the ground and cried deep, heaving sobs. Screw Marco and his no crying rule. I didn’t care about belts or cuffs or anything except who was at the villa looking for me and what, if anything, they’d find.
Please, God… I prayed. I begged, pleaded, and tried to make deals with that invisible entity I’d never given much thought to before. If you get me out of here I swear I’ll be good. I won’t even question why You let this happen. I’ll do anything You want.
I crawled to the door and pressed my ear to it. Nothing. Not a single sound.
“Hello?” I banged my open palm against it. “I’m down here!”
Silence. I sat down with my back against the door and closed my eyes.
It didn’t take long for me to start to feel crazy in the compact room with no stimulation. With no way to mark the passage of time I just sat there and listened, my auditory sense becoming so acute in the silence I could hear my own heart beating and the movement of air into and out of my lungs, but nothing else.
Twice that day the door was opened. Each time I would scream and try to fight my way out, but all that got me were painfully ringing ears from smacks to the head, bruised appendages, and plates of spilled food at my feet.
“Fuuuck!” I screamed in frustration the second time and kicked my plate of grilled chicken and steamed vegetables. It splattered against the wall and I didn’t care because I couldn’t even think of eating. Nobody was going to find me down here. A bleak feeling of despair settled over me like nettles.
“Why?” I cried. “Why are you doing this to me?” I didn’t even know who I was talking to. Marco. God. That bitch, Karma. All of them. Why?
Hours later I lay curled against the door and sheer exhaustion took me.
The next day they brought me nothing. In my hunger I thought about eating the dirty food that I’d thrown, but angry pride kept me from it. And just to ensure I wouldn’t give in and eat it, I picked up each piece and threw it in the crap bucket.
Okay, so I was cutting off my own nose to spite my face, as my mom used to say, but my mind had gone to a dark and cloudy place. The kind of place where, for the first time ever, death began to hold some appeal. I spent the day dreaming about the least painful ways I could go—begging Marco to drug me or gas me. I wasn’t above using his guilt about Fernando as leverage.
But, no. In the end, I knew I wouldn’t do it. Because even in that scary, shadowy place of my mind, a feather of hope floated along, stark white and bright.
Someone would save me. Someday.
On the third day I lay on my back and began chanting the silly name song from when I was a kid.
“Marco, Marco, bo-barco, banana fana fo farco, e-i-o, -arco… Marco!”
I busted into giggles and did a round with everyone’s name: Josef, Mia, Jin, Perla, and Luis. I ended with yelling, “I fuckin’ love the banana fana song! Everybody sing!” More giggles.
After a long while of singing childhood songs the door opened. I looked up from my position on my back, expecting to see Luis, but it was Marco’s stern face looking down at me. I knew at once that nobody was there to save me.
My body and mind moved in harmony without thought. I rolled to my stomach and pushed to my knees, kneeling with my head down, palms flat against my thighs, breathing hard.
Oh, my God. I was his slave. A prostitute. I wouldn’t allow myself to acknowledge it until that moment when it felt very, very real. There was no more hiding from what my life had become. This man owned me.
My heart pounded. Was he mad at me for freaking out? For being stubborn and not eating?
“Bueno chica,” he whispered. He bent enough to lift my chin. In his eyes I saw disappointment and I had to look down again. He tsked.
“Mírate…” Look at yourself.
My nails were broken. I was dirty all over. My knuckles were scabbed and scraped, my legs and arms covered in bruises.
What punishment was I in for? I started shaking from the inside.
“I’m sorry, Master.”
“Shh.” He patted my head. “Do you want to leave so badly, Angel? Is it so bad here for you?”