Prologue

I smell the vomitus stench in the air before I even look up.  I hear the muffled, choking sounds of a black girl.  She is crying.  I search for her face in the dim lighting of the moving vehicle, but my  eyes are still adjusting to the interior of the truck.

When I see her, I want to look away, but I cannot.

She is trying to avoid the sour bile that keeps heaving up into her mouth and  splattering  the floor.

I am appalled by the way her arms are positioned behind her back and retrained at the wrists.

I cannot move to help her even though I desperately  wanted to.  My wrists are also bound.

Please stop it.  Pleassseeee— I shout inside my head.  I want her to stop crying.  I  look away.  I lower my head. There is nothing that I can do.

I try to turn off  my hearing.  I can survive this nightmare if I can just stop listening to all of the tormenting sounds of desperation that are overwhelming my senses—  a weeping girl, a speed truck, a pounding heart...

I do not want to hear the others in the truck.  I don't want to listen to their moans, their woes.

I need to stop thinking. I am uncertain  of what to expect— of what is coming next.

But how can  I shut my body down?  How am  I suppose to ignore what is happening all around me— what is happening to me?

I can't.

Pleassssseeee stop crying.  They'll hear you.  They'll remember that we are here.  I don't want them to remember.  I do not want them to see me.

I'm afraid of their eyes.  I abhor their evil smiles.  Those eyes and those smiles remind me of death— of hell.

I feel like I'm descending further and further into a rotting, fleshing eating hole where there is no escape.

I simply keep falling—  further and further until I eventually die.

I try to shrink into a tiny ball. I am in a sitting position, but I try to get closer to the floor.  I try to become invisible, but the girl next to me will not stop sobbing.

I glance up at her from my hunched position.  I see she is younger than I am.  A lot younger.  She's maybe nine or ten years old.

She's a child.

I want to comfort her, but I'm afraid.  I don't even know what I'd be comforting her from.  How had she gotten here?  What is her story?

I have to ignore her.  I try to focus on something else.

I am huddled against the wall.  I want to cry into my tee-shirt, but again I am too afraid.  I think I'm  in shock.

I am still wearing the soccer shorts and protective leg padding that I put on this morning.  Today is the first day of practice.

But none of that is important now.  Not sports.  Not college. Not anything other than trying to stay alive.

“I want to go home,” the girl whines.  “Can I go home?” she pleads before she starts to cry again—

Pleassseeee stop it.   Pleasssseeee.

I suddenly hear movement.  I know who it is.  It's the big man.  The same huge man who ran up to me while I was walking and lifted me into his arms.  The same hideous man who put his hands over my mouth and continued to run with me while I struggled to get away.

He is the one who threw me into a parked truck and quickly got in behind me.

I refuse to look up.

I hear his footsteps stop  beside me.

I can't breath.  I turn off my insides.  I shut my eyes  and squeeze their lids tightly while  hunching  my shoulders even more and becoming even smaller.

Then I hear his voice, “I told you what would happen to you if you didn't shut up.  I warned you.”

The girl continues to cry.  In fact, the sounds seem to get louder.

Why wouldn't she simply stop?

“That's it,” says the man.  “Now I'm  gonna show you—

I try to blank out everything that follows his first slap—  I really try, but I can hear the girl choking.  I glance up and I see that he is stuffing her mouth with something.

I close my eyes quickly.  I try to lift my spirit from my body.  I want to leave all of this behind.

Desperately, I do; but I cannot.  I am trapped beside them.  I hear them—

Clothes ripping—

Hands fumbling—

Have you ever listened to someone being raped?  Do you know the horror of hearing it-- of having it happen next to you-- of not  being able to stop it?

Can you imagine listening to the strangled, pitiful screams of a little girl?  You  want to save her, but you can't?

You can't even save yourself—

I feel my thoughts exploding, rupturing inside my head, destroying my innocence.

Adjectives  burst open inside  my brain.  Words that use to describe me.  Words that will change—

Safe—

Loved—

Protected—

Sweet—

Innocent—

Virgin—

I begin to rock back and forth on the floor like a baby who is being gently comforted by her mother.  I think of my own mother—  of her sugary smell— of her nurturing presence.

This is the first time that I've been unable to pick up my     phone and text a quick message to her which is a part of our daily routine.  We've been communicating  like this since grade school.  Either I'd text her or vice versa.  It didn’t matter the time or the hour.

She's probably worrying right now, but I have no way of reaching her.

My cell has been confiscated along with my keys, my gym bag and my school ID.

A warm protective feeling washes over me as I remember more things about her.

My mother is always claiming that the dinging sound of  an incoming text disrupts her busy day, but I know she's not telling the truth.  She loves knowing what I'm up-to while she’s at work.  She is one of those parents who will worry obsessively if given the opportunity, but I am the type of child who believe that texting is  the next best thing to being there so most of the time she's spared the anxiety of worrying.

That is until now.

The horror of my situation rushes back to me. It jilts me into the present  

I find a corner of my brain and I stay there.  I meditate on images of my mother and I will myself to sleep, but what I experience instead  is a  shock induced stupor.  I am in a trance-- a psychotic hideaway where sleep eludes me.  It refuses to keep me safe.  

It doesn't protected me, because I am still aware of the little girl struggling with the man.  

Moments later, I hear that same man rising up from his position on the floor.

I peek at the space he vacates and I see her; she is motionless.  Is she breathing?  Is she alive?  How can she survive such an ordeal?

I look for the man again and he is  standing above me.  He is staring at me; he is grinning  that evil smile.

I close my eyes.

I wait.

He eventually walks away.

“No more crying from that one,” he laughs.  “You better stay quiet too,” I hear him call out and I believe the warning is meant for me.

He is gone.  He has disappeared into the front part of the truck.  I cannot  see the driver through the curtained off section of the vehicle, but it does permit light enough for me to know that most of the people in this truck are women and children.  Most of them are black.

There are a few girls like me, but not as many.  I look at a white girl, but she looks away.  She is just as afraid to make eye contact as I am.

My attention is suddenly drawn to the other side of the truck.  I hear a faint almost inaudible sound.  It reminds me of an all boys catholic choir singing hymnals at Christmas Mass.  The voice is heavenly.  It is a soothing balm—

“Padre Nuestro, que estas en el cielo. Santificado sea tu nombre...”

I began translating the Spanish words into English as I pray along with her, “Our Father who art in Heaven.  Hollow be thy name.  Thy kingdom come.  Thy will be done...”

I say the words and I become lost in the hope that God is listening.    That he will hear our prayers.  That he will rescue us from this evil.

I stop praying, but the young girl keeps reciting the words like her mind and voice are on a loop.  Over and over she says them.  Softly.  Quietly.

Does anyone else hear her?  I look around.  Most of the people seem to be absorbed in their own misery.

Still her angelic voice goes on.  It sounds like a melodic song chanted by angels.

Who is this girl?  Had she been abducted from school?  Is she a kidnapped victim just like me?  How did they get her?  How did they steal her away?

So many questions— I have too many and no way to answer them.

I examine the girl.  The dim lighting makes it hard, but I believe she is very pretty.  I see long hair and a slim body.  I wonder whether she is a college student.  I try to determine if she is one of the girls that I'd met on campus during my first week at school. 

Could she be a business  major like myself?  How old is she?  I lose myself in thoughts as I try to distract myself from the nightmare  and dwell on the young praying girl...

Chapter One

I never thought I'd end up here.  I never imagined I'd be stolen— snatched from the college campus of a major city in the middle of the afternoon while leaving soccer practice.

But it happened.

My name is Solange Adams.  I keep repeating it over and over in  my head. I mustn't forget who I am.  I have to hold on to that piece of identity which belongs to a girl who is quickly vanishing.

It is important that I keep   my identity.

I will not become weak.

I won't give up.

I must escape.

I have to try.

I will get away.

I cannot forget who I am...  My mind seems to be on repeat.  The same sentences keep forging their way through my brain.

Yesterday would have been the beginning of my  third week of college life, if things had gone differently.

I am a freshmen at one of the top ten universities in the world. My major is Business— at least it was.

I am  studying International Finance.  I plan to take as many accelerated courses as is doable and complete an internship abroad.  Maybe England or France.

I am fluent in French.  I love the language.  I almost became a language major, but the world of DOW, NASDAQ and the oldest stock exchange in the country keeps calling me—

I've walked past The Philadelphia Stock Exchange  plenty of times with my parents as a child and imaged being the youngest female broker on the trading floor.

I'd be in the pit buying and selling stock with a financial acuity that would amaze the world—

“Hey you, sit up,” the big man yells out as he startles me away from my distracting thoughts; he pulls me up from the floor and back into a nightmarish world.

I am still in the spot located next to the girl who has permanently stopped crying.  The tears are gone, but now she has that traumatized stare which she  focuses on  the space directly in front of her face.  Her eyes are blank—  her stare is  frozen.  A look of horror  is etched onto her small brown face.

I am amazed at all the things her expressionless face reveals.

I struggle to stand while the man continues to speak to  me.

“Daisy,” he says addressing me by a strange name.  “You're gonna be Daisy— like them daisy duke shorts— at least until we sell ya off,” he grabs one of my exposed legs and squeezes it.  “I'd like to get inside of them shorts,” he sneers.

I look away from his evil eyes.  I lower my head and look down, but I can still feel his eyes on me.  His hand slides up my leg inching onward until I am certain that he is also going to rape me, but his hand stops.

“You is lucky Daisy.  If somebody else wasn't gonna break you in— teach ya what to do, I'd be all inside of you by now,” he grins and then lets his hand fall away from my leg.

I refuse to scream.  I will not cry.  I do not want him to have a reason to molest me, but I cannot stop shaking.  I can't hide the fear I feel at being touched.  Or the fit of trembling that has seized my body.

I avoid eye contact with everybody.  I know the other girls are watching.  I know they are listening, but will not help me— just as I didn't help the little girl who still sits immobile at my feet.  I let my eyes run over her silent, stoic frame.

Will she ever recover from what happened to her last night?  How many more times is it going to happen to her?  When is it going to happen to me?

“Ya sure are pretty— damn sure is.  We gonna make lots of money off of you.  Don't look like you've been touched to much either,” he says confidently.  

I feel bile acids trying to force their way up my throat. I clench my mouth and fight against vomiting.  I am terrified by his words.

What did he mean?  Make money?  How?  With my body?  Sex?  Is he a pimp—

The last word horrifies me.  I look him directly in the face.  Our eyes lock and I know the truth.  He is going to make his money by selling my body.  He is going to force me to sleep with men— lots and lots of men.

He is going to turn  me into a prostitute—

“Come on,” he urges.  “Get behind her,” he says shoving me into a line.  “We got to get out of here.  People is waiting.”

I cannot move.  I am numb.  How can I  obey a man who is going to dehumanize me, who is going to take pleasure in hurting me?

“I'm tellin' ya to move up.  Make more room,” he yells at me before cursing violently.  The words frighten me and cause me to shrink away from him.  I am expecting a facial slap, but surprisingly he does not raise his hand to me.

I struggle to comply.  My arms are still behind my back and my wrists are still locked together.

“You next,” he says snatching at the little girl on the floor beside me.

When she stands, I see the blood on her clothes.  She tries to move, and I see the agony in her eyes.  It is a tortured look—  a caged animal look.

The little girl struggles to get in line, but her mouth remains closed.  The tears are dried white outlines on her face and her will seems broken.

I look away in shame.  I wish that I could have stopped the rape.  I hate being powerless.

Who will rape me?  When will it happen?  Today?  Tonight?  How soon will it occur?  Will I even survive the ordeal?

I search the truck discretely looking for the girl who'd been praying.  I cannot find her.  I use the light from the open rear door of the truck to aid me, but I do not see her.  I become frantic.  Where is she?

She had been there when I'd finally drifted off to sleep.  How long ago had that been?  I have no way to judge time.   It could have been minutes.  It could have been hours.

It is still nighttime.  Where can she be?  Is she being sold at this very minute?  I have no way of processing all the vile things going on around me.

My nostrils are filled with the despicable smell of sweat, vomit, and sex.  Who else has been violated  in this truck?

I refuse to guess as the line of women, and children begin to move forward until we each get to the front of the truck.  We jump from the vehicle and await our future. 

Chapter Two

There are all kinds of marketplaces in the world.  Some sell food, others peddle the local merchandise of a region— fish, produce, spices, clothing, artwork...

But the one I am standing it sells humans.  I am positioned in a long line of girls, boys, young women and men.  Some of them I recognize from the truck we abandoned earlier in the night.  It is still dark outside, but I guess that is irrelevant; because this warehouse is bright and very  busy.

I am stupefied as I look from on end of the building to the other.  There are signs hanging above our heads which give directions to the  customers.

The signs are tier-like and resemble the ones seen in grocery stores:  Beautiful  Girls.  Handsome Boys.  Young Virgins. Imported Girls.  Imported Boys.  Migrant Workers.  Domestic Workers.

The categories seem endless.  As I wait in the long line I continue to read:  Lost & Found.  Tattoo Branding.  Sample While You Wait.  Special Orders Taken Here...

My mind reels at what the dangling plaques suggest.  The amount of people in the room staggers me.  I can tell the difference between the customers and the people being sold.

Most of the victims, like me, have shocked expression on our faces.  We are also being watched very carefully.  Almost as if our captors are afraid that someone will try to steal us away from them.

The big man with the evil eyes who touched my leg earlier directs me and the others to keep moving.  We are headed toward  large platform at the front of the warehouse.  My knees buckle as I get closer and closer to the stage.  I know what is coming next.   Eventually it will be my turn to stand before the crowd.  It will be my turned to be stripped of my clothes and displayed publicly.  I realize this as I watch the teenage boy on stage now.  He is Hispanic and very attractive—

I look away when his jeans are removed.  The audience goes wild and I hear obscene language describing what some of the men would do with such a beautiful boy.

There is then a frenzy of bidding over him— a price war with the highest bidder paying out thousands of dollars in the end.

That is the moment that I realize my face is wet with tears.  These men and women are savage flesh eating piranhas   Their lust and greed to buy the best that the market has to offer  heighten the riotous atmosphere of the ongoing auction.

I blank out emotionally, until I feel the big man leading me onto the stage.  For a brief moment the room goes still.  Everyone is looking at me.  I see anticipation in the eyes of some.  I see disappointment in the expression of others, but all wait for my introduction.

Then the nightmare begins again.

“This here is Daisy,”  the evil man says.  “She's damn pretty as you can tell— also got somethin' real special between them legs.  Still a virgin—

That was when the crowd goes wild.  A man tries to come on stage to get a better look—

The evil man prevents him from reaching the platform, “No touching this one until you've paid in full.  The auction is just starting—”

“How much for that one?” the man yells out as he keeps his distance.”

I am trying to comprehend the question when I feel my tee-shirt being lifted over my head and removed.  My bra is snatched from my shoulders and pulled down to my waist.  

The men in the crowd start laughing and cheering.  Some yell to remove my shorts.  That happens next.   Both my underwear and uniform bottoms are pulled down to my ankles and rest against my sneakers.

“This one is smart.  She's college educated.  So we'll start at ten  thousand— ”

“I can't pay that,” yells the man who moments ago tried to approach me.  “Bring the price down some.”

“I tole ya this one's special.  She can man your money back in a week if ya use her right.  I won't mind keepin' her for myself, but can't afford to.  She's a real money maker.”

I hear dollar amounts being shouted out.  Each one goes higher than the last.  I stop listening when the amount reaches fifty thousand dollars—  

I turn my head to the left in order to see who's going to take my place; it is the little black girl.  I cringe.

How much more torture will she endure?

She looks so fragile so helpless. I want to protect her like I would a kid-sister.  I want to promise her that this is going to end soon, but how can I?

I'd simply be lying.  I know that this is just the  beginning. Things are going to get a whole lot worse for the both of us.

I realize after staring for several seconds that her bloodstained shorts have been removed.  She looks cleaned-up.  The tears are gone—  

I also notice that her hands are free.  I frown.  I don’t understand.  Most of us still have our hands bound  behind our backs.

I watch the black girl now more out of curiosity than empathy.  Her head is bent and her arms are dangling freely at her sides.  She glances at the stage, but her eyes do not focus on me.

The girl's eyes are fixed on the big man.  I can’t read the expression on her face; but I get the distinct impression that if I   look away, I am going to miss something.

So I don’t  blink  an eye.  I can barely hear the frenzy of bidding going on around me.  Most of the people near the auction  block are focused  on me; however, I cannot take my eyes off the little  black girl.

When she drops quickly to floor and disappears from sight, my heart plummets.  As I search frantically for her, the big  man exclaims loudly, “

I jump.

Has he realized that the girl is trying to escape?  Is he about to go after her? 

I turn to the evil man  and he is smiling at me.  He lowers his head to kiss me.  I try to evade his mouth, but his lips still make contact with my cheek.

He praises me for  earning so much money as he readjusts my clothes.  His hands deliberately slide across my butt as he pulls  up the soccer shorts and he pinches my breasts while he lowers the tee-shirt.

I close my eyes  and bare it.  I say a silent prayer for the little girl.  I hope she escapes. I want her to gets as far away from here as possible.  I want her to tell the police— to tell the world.

Chapter Three

Where is she?  Did she escape?  My eyes dart around the  marketplace.  I don’t see her.  I try to contain the nervous, excited feelings that are building and beginning to overwhelm me.

Stay calm.  Do not overreact.  No one knows that she's missing—

My heart is thumping, and racing erratically.  The small organ inside of my chest feels like it is slamming against a boney  ribcage and causing all  kinds of internal havoc.  I know it is just my imagination, but the fear is so real.  I am consumed by it.  I try to quiet the internal turmoil .

She will get away.  She will get help; I tell myself this as I scan the room  one more time.  I can’t seem to control my actions.  I need hope.

I am about to give up searching when I spot the little girl.  She is still low to the floor— crouching almost crawling.  I begin  perspiring.  Sweat erupts along my hairline, and runs down the sides of my face with no problem.

“What's the matta with ya—”

I barely hear the question as I watch  the black girl squeeze through an opening that runs along the floorboards.  She disappears from the room.  It happens so quickly.  Everything is moving rapidly.

How could she slip so easily though such a tiny hole  I am stunned.

I examine the square opening closely and determine that it's a floor vent.  The metal grid-cover is missing.  I also notice several other missing covers along the base of the room.

The building is old and in obvious need of repair, but the large marketplace is crowded  and the condition of the warehouse is hidden by eager buyers who are trying to get the best deal for their money.

“Whatcha lookin' at?” asks the evil man.  He  turns his head in the same direction that I am staring.

Then his face twists into an ugly frown and he demands out loud, “Where is the black girl?” his exclamation is as sudden as his quick movement down the steps.  He pulls me along with  hectic, anxious jerks of my arm and I follow without protest.

His eyes sweep the area around the auction block before he focuses on the man who drove the  truck full of human cargo.  He curses and uses rough descriptive language which frightens me even further before he releases my arm.

“She can’t git far.  Look for her.  Let the others know— them men watchin' the doors.  Find her.”

The other man moves away from the line of girls awaiting their turn to stand before the increasing horde of buyers who are clustering around the front of the stage.  He pushes through men and even a few women that are staring at the elevated platform with expectant, hopeful expression on their faces.  The wiry, thin man rushes off in the direction of the security posted  near the exit doors and busiest section of the market.  People are coming and going.

I shift my gaze back to the  restless, angry man.  His temper is fowl, his mood is brewing.  He seems to be calculating. his loses as he scans the  room before looking directly at me.

His mood seems to change again while he runs his eyes over my face and body.  He smiles suddenly, but the action  does little to transform his face.  He still looks like a man capable of doing the treacherous things I witnessed. in the truck.

Vile, crude images flood my thoughts.  They rapidly attack my five senses.  I am recalling the assault just as it happened— every swift brutal action.

I have to stop the memories and sounds of the rape from filling my head completely.  The reeking smell from the truck fills my nostrils.  The whimpering cries of a little girl overpowers my hearing—

The evil man speaks, “Can’t keep the customer waitin' Daisy.  He's paying good money for you.  Oooohhhh  girl you's a gold mine—  a real treasure.  I was scared to go after you on that street with so many people around, but you was worth it.  I could have gotta  lots of jail time for taking a white girl— more than if you was black; but dammmmnn you sure paid off good,” he exclaims in a laughing excited voice.  Now if I can git my hands on  that missing girl—”

I  look at him and  desperately blink away the tears that  won't stop rolling down my cheeks.

I can't stop crying.

I understand now why the little black girl wouldn't stop weeping.

I've been sold.  I am being taken further and further away from my family—

Do my parents even know that I'm missing?  Will the school notice my absence?

I was just starting to make friends at the university.  Would any of those people realize that I'm gone?

I begin to shake physically as the big man continues to praise himself for being so courageous, “Maybe I'll get lucky again,” he says as he leads me completely down the steps and away from the auction block.

I look behind myself to see who is going to take my place.  It is a pregnant women.  I gasp in shock, but the more that I see the less surprised I am.  As I turn around and follow the man, I wonder who the crowd of people are bidding on.  Is it the mother and  the baby?  Or does each bring a separate price?

I refuse to think any further than that.  I do now want to discover anymore evil in this place, but that is not to be the case.

I hear arguing.   There are two men bickering about something.  I glance up and see an older man standing near them.  His hands are tied in much the same way as mine are.  His looks to be in his fifties.  He is the first person that I've seen over the age of twenty.

I frown as we pass them and I listen to the hostile words being uttered by one of the two men, “He's not healthy.  Look at him.  I don't want him.  My client needs a man in good condition,” he yells.  “With good organs.  This man is dying— he won't survive a surgery.  Is he a drug addict?”

The other man seems to be trying to calm the outraged customer, but his words are useless.

“I paid good money for viable organs.  Give back the money  or show me a healthy man—

I continue to listen to the argument in horrid fascination.  Did this place sell organs as well as women, men and children?  Was it harvesting body parts?

“Keep it movin'.  You got your own problems to worry 'bout,” said the evil man as he shoves me along.  “You gonna make some man really happy.  Make that two men,” he grins.  “Once I get my hands on that money and split it up.”

I dismiss the fighting men from my thoughts and return to my own fears.  I cannot believe that this is happening to me.  I stop walking when the big man stops in front of a black man.

Is he the person who bought me?  What is he going to do with me?  I stare openly.  I wait for the next thing to happen.

The big man speaks first, “You want her branded.  It's free.  You just tell the tattoo artist what you want on her.  It won't take long.”

My mind screams and comes alive.  Is he going to brand me?  But why?  I cannot comprehend the conversation.

The black man displays no emotion when he speaks, “It is not necessary.  I do not want to blemish her skin with a mark of ownership.”

“If ya change your mind, it's still free.”

The black man who is dressed in pants and a causal shirt nods and then gestures toward another man who is dressed in a similar fashion.

“Pay him.  Then take her to the car.  I still do not see what I came here for,” says the young man with thin long flowing dreads that are knotted behind his back and hang in a ponytail.

His accent draws my attention.  He is not American.  I hear traces of a European accent.  The man then surprises me when he behinds to speak again.  This time the evil man and I both stare and trying to decipher what we are hearing.

The language is not recognizable to me.  What is he saying?  What is he looking for?

“Can I help ya find somethin' else.  What cha want?”

“Another girl.  Pretty like this one, but black.  I like women with dreads.  Tall thin,” the man watches my captor closely.  “Do you have such a girl.”

The evil man hesitates, then says, “Give me the money for this one.  Then we'll look around.  This place has everything.”

Once the money is given to the evil man, I am left to stand there while they walk away.

“Come along,” says the other black man as he directs me to walk beside him.  “Do not try to escape.  For your own sake, please listen.”

I hear his words and wonder.  How can I run with my hands tied?  Where can I flee?  I don’t know-where I am.  I can’t determine whether or not I am  still even  in the  state of Pennsylvania.

I walk beside the black man, but I cannot stop looking around.  I search  for the little girl who refused to speak after the attack.

Where is she?

I glance around trying to catch a glimpse of the girl who had been praying in the truck.  I see either of them as I follow the man out of the marketplace.

Chapter Four

I am sitting in the back of an expensive car when the man who purchased me returns to it.  He seems angry when he slips into the passenger's seat and slams the door.  He appears to have forgotten that I am in the rear of the vehicle. 

“She is not there ,” he declares in a stricken voice. “I have searched everywhere.  I have offered thousands of dollars for her, but no one has seen her.”

“Are you sure Victorio?  The place is big.  Perhaps I can find her— let me try.”

“No, no.  It is better to be patient.  To try again in a few days—”

The men suddenly realize that I am listening to their every word.  They switch back to that strange sounding language.  The conversation continues.  It is heated.  The men cast looks at me from time to time as they talk.

The language switches back to English again and my ears become alert.

“Ask her, Victorio.  See what she know,” the other man encourages.

The African with the twisted ponytail speaks, “I am looking for a woman.  She has brown skin, is very pretty and has long locks like mine.  She is a college student  like you.  She goes to Susquehanna State University—”

I  listen to the man speaking.  Even if I knew the girl, I would not help him find her.  I would not be used to trap another girl into this nightmare.

“Her name is Penelope Nsue,” he explains.  “I am her uncle.  She disappeared  ten days ago.”

I scan his face.  Is he telling the truth?  I do not trust his words.  He has just paid thousands of dollars to a vile man in order to get me.  He is a part of this scheme.  He has to be.  Normal, decent people do not go to human auctions in the middle of the night.  They do not buy kidnapped girls.

No, this man is lying.

I shake my head and lower my eyes.  I am afraid to speak.  I hadn't uses my voice in hours— not since I screamed for help when the evil man grabbed me.

  “She is afraid,” says Victorio.  “But she knows a lot.  I can see it in her eyes.  “Let's get out of here.  The stench of the place is in my lungs.   We need to go.  I do not want to get stopped by the police.  There would be no way to explain this girl, Matthieu.”

“I agree,” says  the driver as he starts the car.  “This country would have us jailed, tried and deported back to Equatorial Guinea,” he says pulling away from the marketplace.

I have never heard of the place.  Is it a country in African?  I become more troubled.  Were they going to sneak me out of the country?  Is that even a possibility?  I have not passport— no visa.  Can these men manufacture such documents?

Will I ever see my family again?

I look at the building in front of me.  Its outward appearance is deceitful.  The quiet structure boasts nothing of the atrocities taking place inside.  Its many stories hide the human trafficking going on in there.

The place successfully masks the selling and reselling of human property.  It conceals the labeling of  flesh— the colorful tattoo brandings of cash-bags, dollar symbols and royal crowns which  are the bold logos of a modern day pimp.

We begin to speed along an empty highway and I stare out of the window. I am searching for another car.  If I can get someone's attention, maybe I can get away.

I gingerly test my hand restraints.  They are still tight and refuse to allow me the ability  to narrow my hands enough  to slide them off.  My wrists feel raw and are starting to burn

As I  move closer to the door, I turned my body at an angle.  I hope that what I'm doing isn't obvious.  I plead quietly that the door isn't locked.

My fingers grasp the handle.  I pull, but nothing happens.  I try again.  Still nothing.

I fall back against the seat while the rage and anger  builds up inside of me.  What am I going to do?  How will I escape?

I stare at the ceiling of the car briefly as I wait for another opportunity.  Maybe there will be another chance to run when the car reaches its destination.

Those thoughts trigger more anxiety, and fear.  Where were these men taking me?  What were they going to do with me?  My mind immediately goes into overload.  Vile, disgusting images of the marketplace fill my head.  

I can still see the haunted, desolate look on the face of the little girl in the truck.  I wonder what is happening to her?  Did she escape?  Are they still searching for her?  Or has she been caught and sold?

I think about the news stories I've seen on television.  Reports of immigrant workers come to mind— men, women and children picking blueberries, tomato, and other crops during the end of a farming season.

I remember stories of locked abandoned  trucks discovered  by police that contained the suffocated bodies of iIlegal aliens looking for  ways to provide for their families.

Can that be the destination for some of people at the warehouse?  Are they headed for farms?  Will they be transported across state-lines?

I 'd rather think that than to consider the strong likelihood that many of the women and children are being  auctioned off into the sex trade.

My mind  abhors the idea of it, but I am certain that most of the people at the marketplace will end up becoming prostitutes.

The reality of it all brings me back to my own circumstances.  I have to escape these evil men who are probably plotting the same  horrible future for me.