I work in silence, even though Sofie chats away. Towards the end of the evening, my phone alerts me to the fact that I’ve got a text message. I don’t really answer texts because the whole thing confuses me, but lately I am starting to figure it out. Santana insists I learn, because it’s the ‘way of the world’, but I find so much more peace without it.
I pull the phone out, anyway, and glance at the screen. It’s a message from Tyke.
Tyke: Little one, I thought you were off tonight?
Oh. He thought I wasn’t at work. I try to remember if I told him my shifts, but don’t recall telling him I wasn’t working. Maybe he’s confused. I glance at Sofie, who is in a toilet cleaning, and I quickly respond.
Pippa: Sorry. I thought you knew.
He answers a moment later.
Tyke: What time do u finish?
I swallow, not sure I want to see anyone tonight. My heart is still . . . aching.
Pippa: Probably midnight.
Tyke – Good, I’ll swing past.
God.
A huge part of me wants to say yes, but another part, a more fragile part, doesn’t want him to see me like this. He probably thinks I’m pathetic as it is without seeing me in this state. I respond, hoping my message isn’t rude.
Pippa: I don’t want visitors tonight, but thanks.
Then I switch my phone off and get back to work.
CHAPTER TWO
THEN – Pippa
I don’t know where I am. All I know is that I’m in a foreign place, with foreign people, and no one to tell me what’s happening. I’m freezing cold and I’m so thirsty my tongue feels like a thick piece of sandpaper in my mouth. My body is aching from many hours of travel and little stretching time. I’m alone. Santana isn’t here. Kennedy isn’t here. No one I know is here.
The terror swirling in my chest hasn’t eased at all in the past forty-eight hours. Now we’ve been dumped in a huge frightening house, and it’s gotten even worse. The place we’re in is not America. That much I know. I have no idea where we are—all I know is that I am a long, long way from home. The worst part? I have no idea why.
My mind tries to go over every single thing that happened when I was in Kennedy’s care. Sure, there were things that were off, the drugs especially, but things seemed relatively normal considering. Santana had started to slip, and I knew he was giving her those horrible pills, but she still took care of me. It seemed as if things were moving along at a steady pace.
Then my world got flipped on its axis, and here I am. I have no idea what I’m here for, but I’ve grabbed a few snippets of conversations and managed to have a good guess. Whoever these people are, they buy people. Slaves, to be correct. What sort of slaves I don’t know, but it would seem that’s the closest I’m going to come to an explanation.
In my mind, I can’t quite figure out why someone would be sold as a slave. Did Kennedy do something wrong? Did he owe a debt and this is how it was paid? Did he do this on purpose to make money? I don’t know why anyone would want me. I’m tiny, and weak, and fragile. I’m no good to these people.
Someone coughs and I’m brought back to the here and now. There are eight of us in this tiny room with only one small window for light. There’s no definite pattern in race, age, or gender. There are white, black, Indian, Asian and even South African people amongst the group. There seems to be no age limit, considering I’m under the age of fifteen. The oldest of the group could possibly be sixty.
The room we’re in is long, but thin. There are beds lined up and one tiny bathroom with an old rusted-out basin and toilet. The shower is broken—there are chipped tiles lining it and there’s little to no water pressure. The beds are hard and uncomfortable, dipping in the middle. We were stripped of our clothes the moment we arrived, and put in ugly work clothes.
Maybe that’s what we’re here to do . . . work.
We’ve all barely spoken, but a few words have been shared. Names, mostly. Everyone seems as frightened as I am. I don’t think they understand why they’re here, either. Some look as if they’ve had harder lives than the others, and like they may possibly even be drug addicts and alcoholics. One girl, who is around eighteen, looks like an old woman, she’s so damaged from substance abuse. I’ve lived on the streets long enough to figure out how people who abuse drugs look.
The door creaks and my head turns slowly towards it. The man who captured me walks in, dressed in a suit and tie. His hair is slicked back and he’s got a cold smile on his face. He steps into the room, his hands placed neatly behind his back. He looks so formal. I know he’s a monster, though. I can see it in his pitiless eyes.
“Hello, slaves. My name is Artreau, but that’ll be of no relevance to you. I’m here to tell you why you’re in my care. I own you now. You were sold to me to pay a debt—I’m sure you all know exactly who and what put you in this position.”
My heart clenches. Kennedy. He put me here. He sold me to this monster. I just don’t understand why. I thought he cared about Santana and I? Sure, he cared for her more than me, but he took care of us both. Why would he do this? And if he’s done this to me, what has he done to Santana? The thought has my chest clenching.
“I own tobacco fields,” Artreau goes on. “A good deal of them for that matter. I work them and sell the crop to make a living. I don’t want to pay people my hard-earned money to do the job of harvesting them, so that’s where you come in. You will work those fields, you will plant, and you will tend to and protect my crop. That is your job, and it’s how you will survive here. If you don’t do it, you’ll starve to death and die. Consider it the way you get fed.”
I pull the phone out, anyway, and glance at the screen. It’s a message from Tyke.
Tyke: Little one, I thought you were off tonight?
Oh. He thought I wasn’t at work. I try to remember if I told him my shifts, but don’t recall telling him I wasn’t working. Maybe he’s confused. I glance at Sofie, who is in a toilet cleaning, and I quickly respond.
Pippa: Sorry. I thought you knew.
He answers a moment later.
Tyke: What time do u finish?
I swallow, not sure I want to see anyone tonight. My heart is still . . . aching.
Pippa: Probably midnight.
Tyke – Good, I’ll swing past.
God.
A huge part of me wants to say yes, but another part, a more fragile part, doesn’t want him to see me like this. He probably thinks I’m pathetic as it is without seeing me in this state. I respond, hoping my message isn’t rude.
Pippa: I don’t want visitors tonight, but thanks.
Then I switch my phone off and get back to work.
CHAPTER TWO
THEN – Pippa
I don’t know where I am. All I know is that I’m in a foreign place, with foreign people, and no one to tell me what’s happening. I’m freezing cold and I’m so thirsty my tongue feels like a thick piece of sandpaper in my mouth. My body is aching from many hours of travel and little stretching time. I’m alone. Santana isn’t here. Kennedy isn’t here. No one I know is here.
The terror swirling in my chest hasn’t eased at all in the past forty-eight hours. Now we’ve been dumped in a huge frightening house, and it’s gotten even worse. The place we’re in is not America. That much I know. I have no idea where we are—all I know is that I am a long, long way from home. The worst part? I have no idea why.
My mind tries to go over every single thing that happened when I was in Kennedy’s care. Sure, there were things that were off, the drugs especially, but things seemed relatively normal considering. Santana had started to slip, and I knew he was giving her those horrible pills, but she still took care of me. It seemed as if things were moving along at a steady pace.
Then my world got flipped on its axis, and here I am. I have no idea what I’m here for, but I’ve grabbed a few snippets of conversations and managed to have a good guess. Whoever these people are, they buy people. Slaves, to be correct. What sort of slaves I don’t know, but it would seem that’s the closest I’m going to come to an explanation.
In my mind, I can’t quite figure out why someone would be sold as a slave. Did Kennedy do something wrong? Did he owe a debt and this is how it was paid? Did he do this on purpose to make money? I don’t know why anyone would want me. I’m tiny, and weak, and fragile. I’m no good to these people.
Someone coughs and I’m brought back to the here and now. There are eight of us in this tiny room with only one small window for light. There’s no definite pattern in race, age, or gender. There are white, black, Indian, Asian and even South African people amongst the group. There seems to be no age limit, considering I’m under the age of fifteen. The oldest of the group could possibly be sixty.
The room we’re in is long, but thin. There are beds lined up and one tiny bathroom with an old rusted-out basin and toilet. The shower is broken—there are chipped tiles lining it and there’s little to no water pressure. The beds are hard and uncomfortable, dipping in the middle. We were stripped of our clothes the moment we arrived, and put in ugly work clothes.
Maybe that’s what we’re here to do . . . work.
We’ve all barely spoken, but a few words have been shared. Names, mostly. Everyone seems as frightened as I am. I don’t think they understand why they’re here, either. Some look as if they’ve had harder lives than the others, and like they may possibly even be drug addicts and alcoholics. One girl, who is around eighteen, looks like an old woman, she’s so damaged from substance abuse. I’ve lived on the streets long enough to figure out how people who abuse drugs look.
The door creaks and my head turns slowly towards it. The man who captured me walks in, dressed in a suit and tie. His hair is slicked back and he’s got a cold smile on his face. He steps into the room, his hands placed neatly behind his back. He looks so formal. I know he’s a monster, though. I can see it in his pitiless eyes.
“Hello, slaves. My name is Artreau, but that’ll be of no relevance to you. I’m here to tell you why you’re in my care. I own you now. You were sold to me to pay a debt—I’m sure you all know exactly who and what put you in this position.”
My heart clenches. Kennedy. He put me here. He sold me to this monster. I just don’t understand why. I thought he cared about Santana and I? Sure, he cared for her more than me, but he took care of us both. Why would he do this? And if he’s done this to me, what has he done to Santana? The thought has my chest clenching.
“I own tobacco fields,” Artreau goes on. “A good deal of them for that matter. I work them and sell the crop to make a living. I don’t want to pay people my hard-earned money to do the job of harvesting them, so that’s where you come in. You will work those fields, you will plant, and you will tend to and protect my crop. That is your job, and it’s how you will survive here. If you don’t do it, you’ll starve to death and die. Consider it the way you get fed.”
