Page 2 of Fractured Future

At least in these makeshift prisons, lined up in what seems to be a subterranean warehouse, I have a fighting chance. The swaying shipping container and constant screams we endured before almost broke me.

Almost.

“Stupid slut!” He viciously catches a handful of my greasy, dyed blonde hair. “You need to learn when to admit defeat.”

“I wasn’t taught to give up,” I garble.

“Then allow me to teach you!”

Misjudging his next move, I don’t avoid the thick fist sailing straight towards my face. The impact hits hard—my teeth snapping together, vision blurring and more warm, tangy blood filling my mouth.

Quakes ricochet through me as something in my cheek audibly cracks. The explosive aftershock reverberates, my bones grinding together with an awful crunch.

There aren’t words to sufficiently describe the white-hot, liquid fire stabbing into my tissue, igniting nerve fibres into a vision-blackening pain that rivals any punch I’ve received before it.

“Not such a smart mouth now. Are you?”

I choke on a strangled sob. “F-F-Fuck!”

“That’s it.” He wipes his knuckles off on his filthy black jeans. “Show me those tears.”

“Leave her alone!” someone else screeches.

“Shut it, bitch,” he fires back.

I don’t know all of my fellow captives. There are too many tearstained faces, contorted with terror, for me to memorise. At least thirty women of varying ages, builds and ethnicities. A veritable smorgasbord of unwilling victims.

“That’s what I thought.” Diego’s gaze refocus on me, boiling with hatred. “Your mouth is giving these sluts the bravery to speak to me.”

All I can muster is a broken whimper.

“Do I have to beat your ass in front of them?”

I won’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.

“I’ll happily do it,” he adds, lips curling in a grin. “With pleasure.”

My life back home feels like a million miles from this soul-crushing low. I don’t know how long I’ve been missing. Hours. Days. Weeks. Perhaps even months. A lifetime could have passed.

Time is only marked by the fading and inflicting of more injuries. For each new bruise, cut or scrape, another strike is etched onto the walls of my mental cage.

I count my survival in each beating that I outlive. For every drop of blood slicked across their fists, I buy myself another hour. Another day. Another breath. Perhaps if I buy enough time, I will find my way out of this nightmare.

“Got nothing to say to me now?” Diego jeers.

“N-No,” I sniffle.

“Time to get dressed then. We have somewhere to be. Perhaps you’ll learn to keep your stupid mouth shut in the future.”

Diego is one of the few men who doesn’t wear a mask. He’s overweight, his rounded belly testing the boundaries of his jeans. While he screams at us in English, his voice has a slight exotic twang.

Our captors are all the same. Violent. Sadistic. Merciless. Well-tanned with accented voices, wearing the same nondescript uniform: basic and dark enough to hide the bloodstains.

He picks up the skimpy bra and thong that started this fight then waves them in my face. “Dress.”

“Fuck you!”

“Once you meet the customers out there looking for a piece of your ass, you’ll wish it was me fucking you.”