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It’s all good, though. One of these days, Cupid’s arrow is gonna find its mark, and when it does, there won’t be any doubts or questions or trying to figure it out. It’ll just be.
Mama always said, “When it comes to love, if it ain’t perfect for you, then it ain’t right either.”
Chapter Two
Athena
“Will that be everything, Miss?” The freckly sales assistant behind the counter eyes me warily, and I know what he really wants to ask.
What the fuck happened to you?
The once-white T-shirt I’m wearing has a strong stench of piss, my feet are bare, and my threadbare skirt is coming apart at the seams, barely covering me. At least my hair isn’t too bad, tied in a messy bun on top of my head. There are scars along my upper arms of various shapes and sizes and I have a fading bruise across my cheek.
I’m a sight, that’s for sure, but I refuse to give in to self-pity. As terrified as I am being around all of these strangers, I have to dig deep into myself and find the strength my mother would have expected of me.
“Yes, thank you.” I count out the thirty dollars I need from the cash I managed to grab before I left—escaped.
“Don’t worry about the cash, Miss. It’s on me.” Handing me the bag containing my new clothes, he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Spending the last twenty-eight years under the rule of others, in what could be described as captivity of sorts, hasn’t weakened my senses. I can clearly see the pity written all over his face; it’s in the slant of his brows and the tightness of his jaw. Reading and understanding reactions was also part of my intense training; they couldn’t exactly parade a dumb bitch around the expensive galas—not my words.
Nothing is ever free, though, which means this man must want something else from me in return. I’m struggling to keep my breaths even and my body from obviously shaking because I was naïve enough to think people in the outside world would be better than the ones who’ve surrounded me my entire life.
“Please, I can pay.” My words come out on a croak as I hold out the cash for him, waving it around, waiting for him to take it, but when his pity turns to confusion, I realize I may have misread the situation. Maybe he’s not actually after more and I’m overreacting. Is this what real kindness looks like?
I can’t risk it. Dropping the cash on the counter, I grab the bag and make a mad dash for the thrift store’s exit. For my first time in a shop of any kind, it could have gone worse.
Accomplishment and embarrassment both flow through me, and I wish I had found a way to clean myself up a little before running and winding up here, but I just didn’t have the time.
The cold morning air whips against my skin as soon as I step outside, and I’m thankful I parked the truck opposite the shop. Making sure there are no other vehicles on the road, I run across, quickly sliding into the driver’s seat of the ridiculously big vehicle. It was officially the ‘workhorse’, as Mrs. Grouse liked to call it, which means it was basically gathering dust in the back of their garage because no one spent much time actuallyworking. One of my guards, Dan, started showing me around the garages and the vehicles about two years ago, even showed me how they work, which is how I’ve managed to get this far in my escape.
Wasting no time, I start the engine, allowing the heat to blow through the cab and warm my near-freezing bones. The bag of clothes now sitting on the passenger seat makes my fingers twitch. I'm eager to wear something that wasn’t handed down to me by those two psychopaths and it burns a fire deep inside my belly that feels a lot like freedom and independence. At least, that’s what I think it is.
Before being sold to the highest bidder, I lived with my mom and her master. I’m not an idiot, I know spending my entire life used and abused will make it almost impossible for me to adapt to a new life but I’m hanging on to thealmost.Almost impossible… which means there’s a window and I plan on going through it.
But first, I need to find a bathroom so I can wash myself off then change into clothes that don’t smell like twenty-eight years of captivity.
With only one small bath allowed a week, I’m often left with crusted cum over my face and body, but it’s been almost two weeks since I last washed myself. Luckily, the Thanksgiving break was very soon after my last bath, so I’m mostly just covered in my own scum right now.
My eyes flit around the parking lot, hyper aware that I’ve only been gone a few hours and the chances of being caught and dragged back to that hell hole are high. At the thought, a shiver runs straight down my spine and explodes in my chest. I’m very familiar with this feeling—fear—I’ve been living with it my entire life.
I’m basically the sex slave version of Harry Potter without all the fun magic, except my under-the-stairs bedroom is the atticand my Hogwarts was going from one shitty living situation to a bigger one. Which is how I ended up with Master and his wife, Mrs. Grouse.
One of their cleaners, Marie, snuck some books into the attic for me about ten years ago. That day, she told me the books would help me mentally escape but most importantly, I needed to pay close attention to Hermione. Every day, I wished for a big burly man like Hagrid to one day rescue me from my life until I understood Marie’s advice. Take matters into your own hands.
Shaking my head, I banish the useless memories, pull the stick to put the truck in drive—something that took far too long to figure out back at the property because Dan’s instruction hadn’t been exactly practical—and start driving. It’s difficult trying to navigate the roads, but I’ve spent enough time in the car as a passenger to figure out how it mostly works. I wouldn’t call myself a good driver, but I’m managing. What I do know is that the red pump that keeps flashing means I need to get gas. This will be tricky because I’ve only ever seen it done, never actually filled the tank myself.
As I continue farther out of the small town I came across, I pray to the ancient Greek spirit of hope, Elpis, for something better, for something more, for anything other than the sheltered and abusive life I’ve been living. He pulled through with the thrift store, because my stench is even getting to me at this point.
Greek mythology is probably the only thing I’m competent in.
As I slowly make my way down the freshly plowed roads, snow piled up on the sides like castle walls, I realize how flitting my mother’s memories are after all these years. I know she had light brown hair and I know her eyes were green but I can’t remember the actual tint, or the tiny lines at the corners. My mind has been filling in the missing pieces and it kills me a little inside every time.
Her Greek mythology book though? That, I memorized from cover to cover. When they ripped me away from her arms, I was allowed to bring one possession of hers with me. That book is how I learned to read. Night after night, my mother would read it to me, showing me the letters and the words. I was barely even homeschooled, let alone enrolled in an actual school, so those teaching moments are the only reason I can survive out here.
A few months after living with my new owner, though, the book was burned in front of me as punishment for daring to curse.
I should have known better.