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Chapter One
The metallic taste of blood is hard to swallow, almost like salt mixed with very little water. My lip keeps bleeding and I keep pushing it down my throat, the cloth in my mouth too thick to let anything through. Don’t throw up, don’t throw up. I’d hate to choke on my own vomit.
Slowly the panic I had ignored scratches at the surface of my mind, whispering all kinds of things to me. You will die here, they’ve probably killed your parents, whoever they are. Your sister is probably gone as well, just as you will be. What do you think, how long will they hold on to you before they decide you're not worth keeping around? What do you think they’ll do before deciding to end it?
Bright lights blind me when the door opens. The black room suddenly gains color, the walls are painted grey and the wooden floor is stained with— Oh God. It’s all red, full of blood and something… wet.
“Carter, rise.”
There’s a woman standing in the door, wearing some kind of blue dress. The color is so dull it looks almost grey, even her light hair seems in lack of colour.
“Rise,” she repeats, a russian accent heavy on her word.
I rush up, struggling with my hands tied behind my back and the darkness clouding my vision. She steps forward slowly, bending down slightly to take the cloth out of my mouth. “Why am I here? What about my family—“
“You will only speak when spoken to or given permission,” She looks down at me, at the dried blood on my arms and legs. I don’t know how long I’ve been in here but the wounds don’t hurt anymore, at least I can’t feel them.
“Is that understood?”
I nod excessively, my head pounding. “Yes,” I hastily say, “Understood.”
“I’m Madame B. You will only refer to me as Madame B.” Her face looks kind but her expression is so cold and emotionless. “Carter?”
“Understood,” I say, “Madame B., why am I here? Where’s my family? How do you know my last name—“
“What have I told you?” She jumps forward and I press my back behind the solid wall of the tiny room, wincing.
“Only talk when spoken to,” I whisper, my eyes closed. I don’t dare ask another time where my parents and little sister are, why they invaded our home and took me.
“And for God’s sake, stop crying.” she says, disgusted as she steps back again. “Such a piece of work,” she spats, “I wonder what he saw in you… Follow me.”
I have to run to keep up with her, my legs are still stiff from sitting for days, or weeks, I’ve lost all perception of time. I don’t even know if I’m still fifteen or sixteen already.
Madame B. leads me through a hallway without windows past multiple doors before she opens one. The small window is only providing limited light, so it’s probably early morning or late evening.
“This one is yours,” Madame B. points to the top of one of the bunk beds. I look around, there are two of them in total, three girls are occupying them, sleeping—or at least pretending to. “Do go on.”
I glance at her, then down at my bound hands. “How am I—“
“Are you seriously this stupid?” Madame B. pulls out a knife and slices the rope around my hands before I can do so much as flinch. “You will die within the first month.” she mutters.
My stomach twists. What the hell is going on? Where am I? The questions claw at my throat but I bite them back. Madame B. is still holding the knife.
Quietly I do as told, spotting a pair of cuffs as I reach the top. The blood in my mouth tastes even more bitter. Where the hell am I?
Madame B. looks at me expectantly, I hold her gaze for a while. She wants me to put them on, to cuff myself to the bed. I have to get out of here, this cannot be happening to me. Her grip on the knife tightens.
The metal of the cuffs is cold against my skin, I push it closed around my right hand. When will I get out of them? Why am I here? If this is some kind of human trafficking, why have they taken me with force? I’ve watched some true crime not long ago, bruises don’t go well with selling girls.
I jump at the click sound of the cuffs. Madame B. turns and walked out the door, leaving me, sitting on the bunk bed, knees to my chest. The blanket feels rough like sandpaper, I don’t dare move.
Only a few moments after the adrenaline washed off everything begins to hurt. My legs, the gashes on my arms, cuts on my fingers and wounds on my face. Physically I force myself from whimpering.
The silence stretches on, but I can feel them watching me through the darkness. None of them are asleep. What are they doing here? Have they been abducted, too? Or are they here to watch me and report back. Maybe I’m being tested, maybe they want to know if I’d say something to them. What if they want to trick me? What if I fall for it?
One of the girls coughs and I flinch, the wound at the left side of my ribcage stings. The material of my white shirt sticks to my side, red-bronish from the dried blood mixed with fresh liquid.
She’s looking at me, right at me. Dark blonde hair and huge eyes, she can’t be much older than me. “What’s your name?” I whisper.
Radically she shakes her head, mouthing the word “No.”
My head snaps to the door, just as Madame B. opens the door. Has she heard me? How did she enter so quietly? She seems like a ghost or shadow. A cold shower runs down my back. Silently she removes the key from her neck and opens our cuffs one after one, I’m last.
I follow the blonde girl with the wide eyes, only a few steps behind her. The four of us follow Madame B. and I seem like the only one who doesn’t know where.
“Matilda,” she whispers so quietly I almost miss it. Her name, that’s her name. Matilda walks like a dancer, heels barely touch the ground. She’s also wearing ballet shoes. Wait? Is she a dancer? What kind of institution am I in? Why did they bring me here?
“Line up.” Madame B.’s strict voice sounds in the room. One of the four walls is a huge mirror and the floor reminds me of the dance lessons I took years ago. “Carter,”
How does this keep happening? I run to the last remaining spot in the dance formation, right in the front. A few girls laugh behind me. I’m still wearing my dirty t-shirt and sleep trousers, only socks since they took my shoes. Everyone else is wearing grey ballet suits, tights and ballet shoes. I’m terribly out of place.
“Five, six, seven, eight,” Madame B. counts and everyone starts moving. I’m trying my best to keep up but I have no idea what I’m doing. They are going through a certain row of movements. They have all done this before—and they’re perfect. All in sync like dolls or robots. What are they trained for? Why am I here? Are they here willingly?
I allow myself to look away from their legs towards their faces. It’s all the same, all facing forward, no smile, no frown, they all look empty. Everyone shares the same emptiness.
Cold, wet blood runs down my side. In the mirror I see the wound on my left side leaking blood. My body is tired, legs shaking and I can barely lift my arms. I don’t want to know what happens when I stop. Madame B. keeps eying me, watching every move, shaking her head at every misstep or stagger.
Tears form in my eyes, burn at the effort of keeping them in. If there’s one thing I certainly can’t do right now it’s crying. Keep it in, Evie, keep it in.
My fingertips tingle, the edges of my vision blacken. What’s happening? Have I been drugged? That doesn’t make sense, why would they drug me now? I try to keep up, try to keep my legs and arms moving, but they give out from under me. They give up.
My left side hits the floor, my full body weight pressing on my wounds. Maybe I whimper, maybe I scream, I’m not sure. While breathing in and breathing out, I force my eyes to remain open. Stay awake, stay awake.
The other girls haven’t stopped dancing, they’re still moving. My eyes meet Matilda’s for a fraction of a second. Her lips move up the slightest bit. She can’t do anything. I realize she can’t, because she’d be punished. All she can do, all they can do is watch and keep on dancing.
“Evangeline Carter,” Madame B. says my name like a curse word. “Stand up.” No room for objections or arguments.
I pull my arms under me and try to push, push myself up from the floor. My arms shake, blood drips from the cut on my lip and tears from my eyes. There’s no way I will get up. I need to see a doctor, the wound on my stomach probably needs stitches.
“Get. Up.”
I look up at Madame B. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest. Again, I force all my strength into my arms and get up into a sitting position. “Start over.” she says.
It takes everything in me to stand, but I manage to. Some girls laugh again. How could they? I’m suffering, maybe dying, and they laugh? What has this place done to them?
What can it do to me?
We keep on dancing, the tears on my face dry, Madame B. keeps on counting and my legs ache even more than they did before. “Back to your rooms,” she says finally and I allow myself to breathe in deeply. “Carter, you come with me.”
“What?” I say without thinking. Shit, you stupid fool. Madame B.’s eyebrows shoot up at my voice and even some of the other girls look at me as they walk past. “I’m sorry, Madame B. I didn’t mean to—”
“Follow me.” she says with a determination that makes me shudder.
We walk in the opposite direction of the girls, I look after them, waiting for Matilda to at least turn her head, but she doesn’t even twitch.
Is she afraid of something? Would someone else rot her out?
Madame B. leads me down a set of stairs, the air is stiff down here and the temperature stings my hands. The room we end up in has a solid table in the middle with restrains on them. She’s not going to…
“Get up,” she orders.
“Madame B., no, please,” I beg, but it’s no use. She tightens the restraints, treating me like a laboratory animal.
Out of a cabinet Madame B. takes out some liquid, she opens the lid and pours it over my wound.
I scream from the depths of my throat, so loud and violently it hurts. I scream and scream and she has stopped already but my body won’t stop aching. The feeling is endless and I am drowning in the pain.
“Don’t black out,” Madame B. says, “You still have to walk back to your room.”