“Come on, I’ll buy my girls some ice cream.”
The sound of metal pots and pans clashing has me jumping out of my memory. The smell of food cooking has my stomach growl and ache. I don’t know when I ate last, but it wasn’t warm food. The handlers handed out a package of silver wrapping, inside were crackers and dried meat. I remember them being very dry and hard to swallow. I can’t tell what the man in the kitchen is cooking, but it’s making my mouth water, whatever it is.
Grabbing the end of one of my braided pigtails, I begin to softly sing.
“He’s got the whole world in his hands. He’s got the whole world in his hands—”
The bedroom door opens and I still, my fingers pressing into my split ends while I wait for him to speak.
“If you want to eat, you have to join me in the kitchen.”
My neck nearly snaps I turn around so fast, his ultimatum not welcomed. He sounds like one of the men I was sold to a couple years ago. If I wanted to eat, I had to sleep with his brother. It didn’t happen of course because I puked from anxiety. My weak gag reflex is what had me unsold or traded for so many years.
My brows furrow, my fingers now digging into the soft comforter of the bed. He’s shirtless again, but he wears a big cross on a chain that almost distracts from his muscles. He might wear a religious piece of jewelry but he’s not fooling me. I tear my eyes away from that and glare at him. I do not want to go in there with him. He’ll ask questions I don’t want to answer. I’ll have to leave this room, which I feel safe in, for the first time in a long time!
I shake my head, telling him no. His face reddens, he doesn’t seem to like that answer.
“Then starve,” he clips, shutting the door.
My mouth parts, butterflies dying off one by one in the pit of my stomach as it pleads for just a taste of food.
Dropping my head into my hands, my eyes fill with tears. I just want to stay in here, can’t he see that I’m going through something? What does he want from me? I wish he’d just do it already.
Rubbing my hands over my face, I uncross my legs and slide off the bed. I’m instantly light-headed and feel like I may puke. I’m so thirsty and hungry it’s overtaking my fear, I need to go out there. It’s just in the kitchen, he’s not asking me to go outside. He’s not asking me to leave. Opening the door slowly, I peek my head out and find him sitting at the kitchen counter on a stool slipping a fork full of food into his mouth. That sickly feeling that was in my stomach takes over my whole body, I’m starving. Taking a step out, my fingers fidgeting with one another, I carefully walk to the other stool, finding a plate of eggs and pancakes soaked in thick syrup. Keeping my eyes on him, I slide onto the leather stool, the warmth of his body radiating around my own as I ignore how close we’re sitting, and grab the fork and dive in. Shoveling in a mouthful of pancakes, my eyes nearly roll into the back of my head. Butter, warmth, sweetness, it coats my tongue in a deliciousness that can only be a dream. I swallow, barely even chewing, and go in for another bite, proving to myself this is reality. Stabbing the eggs and the fluffy pancakes, I eat and eat, my eyes darting over to the strange man ever so often just in case he tries something, but he just calmly eats, not paying any mind to me eating like a savage dog at his counter.
“Seeing as how you won’t tell me your name, I guess I’ll call you Cindy? Sailor Moon?” he asks, reaching for a glass of milk in front of his plate. I pause mid-chew.
Where did he come up with Sailor Moon? I don’t reply, I continue to eat.
“Really, nothing?”
He’s getting angry that I won’t talk, but I’m scared to. When he’s around me it’s like his presence has a vise-grip around my throat keeping the words locked away. In my experience with men, the keepers, even as a child, it’s better to be seen than heard. It baffles me he wants me to talk so badly. Besides, I take another bite, he’s just going to take me to a shelter where the keepers will come for me, so what’s the point. I’ve seen it done before. They have someone working the shelters so when a woman checks in, they look for a chip and call the handlers. First chance I get… I’m cutting mine out. It’ll hurt, but I don’t care. It’ll save me in the end.
After eating, I drink some of the thick milk, the liquid sitting heavy in my stomach. I only drink a couple of sips before putting the glass down. Feeling full, which is an odd sensation, I’ve never felt like this before. I drop my hands to my lap and look at the man, whose name I don’t know either. He looks back at me and his lips pull into a small smirk.
“You have a little.” He swipes his thumb over his top lip, indicating I have something on mine. Lifting my finger, I touch the skin above my lip and feel milk. I have a milk mustache. Licking it, I bite back a smile and look down. I’m suddenly tired, maybe from the food, maybe from being too scared to sleep last night.
Standing on shaky knees, I begin to walk back to the
