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15
Rose
In my first year at university, I took an Introduction to Philosophy class where I learned all about Kübler-Ross and her model on the five stages of grief. It was initially created for people with terminal diseases to come to terms with their impending death, but since then, the idea has been adapted for those suffering from grief in general. The five stages are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally acceptance. They can be experienced in any order, mixed, repeated, or, in my case, all at once.
On the first day of my journey back to Miami on this godforsaken piece of shit boat, I hover somewhere between denial and depression. That lasts until the first guard shows up with a tray of measly food and a bottle of water. I try to bargain with him, but he either doesn’t speak English or doesn’t care. Either way, his reluctance to talk to me shoves me straight into anger.
For hours, I curse my father’s name until I’m blue in the face and my throat is raw. The bastard is dead to me. And then there’s Connor. That the man my sister married is as corrupt and heartless as our father is my biggest fear coming true. I’m furious with him for doing nothing to stop my dad. But more than anything and anyone, I’m upset with myself for thinking I could get away. That I could ever be free from him.
Acceptance is a hard stage. Mostly because while I’m very much aware of what’s going on, I don’t want to accept it. I’ve been sold into a human trafficking ring by my father like I’m nothing more than a piece of cattle waiting to go to market. I can wish the nightmare away all I want, but no matter how many times I close my eyes and dream otherwise, the reality remains.
The only silver lining, the only thing that keeps me from drowning in despair, is Liam. I can only imagine the terrible thoughts that went through Anette’s head when I didn’t return as promised. And what about Evelyn? We were supposed to meet in Milan. Would she go to the town and look for me? Would she risk collecting Liam?
Thinking of my son sends me spiraling through the five stages once more, but I linger on anger, refusing to accept that I’ll never see him again. I’m determined to break free. I refuse to leave Liam alone without either of his parents so young. His life has only just begun.
I am his mother, and I owe it to him to keep fighting, to survive, and to find my way back to him. So I vow not to go down without a fight. No matter what, I will not become another statistic or forgotten face lost to the unknown.
“Get up! Let’s go, now.”
I open my eyes to bright lights flashing in my face and men shouting at me. The next thing I know, I’m being pulled up, dragged out of my tiny room, and hauled off the ship onto a shipyard. The blinding lights illuminating the wide space feel like a thousand tiny needles piercing my skull, leaving me disoriented and dizzy after being in the dark for so long. Dozens of men, women, and children are pulled off the ship behind me, each one looking as frightened as I feel. Their confused and terrified cries echo through the night air.
Rough hands grab my wrists moments before handcuffs slap down on them. I wince at how tight the cold metal bites into my skin, so I don’t see the other man coming until he’s tying a cloth over my eyes.
“Hey!” I protest, fighting against the first man’s hold. He tightens his grip, and my objection morphs into a cry of pain.
“Stop fighting and walk,” the man grunts.
“Go to hell,” I snap, throwing my weight back to dislodge his hold. It doesn’t work.
“You’re only going to make this harder on yourself if you don’t walk.”
“And you can fuck right off.”
“Alright. That’s enough of that,” he states before the ground beneath my feet disappears, and before I can strike back, I’m thrown in the back of a vehicle, landing hard on my shoulder on the metal floor.
“Motherfucker!” I shout, hissing around the pain that radiates down my arm.
With my arms bound and my eyes covered, it’s useless to fight back now. I know this, but like I said, I’m not going down without a fight. I kick out, my feet hitting nothing but air before doors slam shut, and my heel then connects with a solid door. And then we’re moving.
I struggle to sit up and settle back on my knees, but it’s hard with my equilibrium thrown off by the vehicle’s movement. I’m not alone based on the sobbing sounds surrounding me. Several cry out in foreign languages I don’t understand, but I have a feeling we’re all wondering the same thing. Where are we going? Why did this happen to us? What’s going to happen to us?
I don’t know how long we drive, but it’s long enough that we could be anywhere in Miami now. When the vehicle finally does stop, the back doors are flung open and hands are grabbing once again. I stumble out, falling to my knees on the gravel ground. The tiny rock pebbles tear into my bare skin, then I’m being pulled up and jerked away.
“Be careful with the merchandise, pendejo,” a man warns with a heavy Spanish accent. “They’re not worth as much money if they’re damaged.”
“I’m not merchandise, you asshole,” I spit back in the general direction of the Spanish man.
His response is a deep laugh before he orders the man holding me, “Take her inside.”
The floor beneath my feet changes to something hard, like concrete, and the crying of my fellow victims echoes all around me like we’re somewhere large and empty.
I’m pushed against a wall, and my blindfold is pulled from my face. I blink rapidly and look around, trying to make sense of my surroundings while looking for any sign of an escape route.
We’re in a large warehouse with a ceiling stretching high above the metal rafters and broken windows scattered along it. One by one, other women are shoved into similar positions, and my soul tears into pieces at the sight of children. I see Liam in each one of their scared faces, and all I want to do is pull them into my embrace and protect them from the horrors I know are coming.
I ache terribly for Liam, but seeing the children now, I'm glad he’s back in Italy. At least with Anette, he has a chance at a normal life if I never see him again. Being an orphan is a better life than what awaits these children.
“Strip!” a man shouts. His single-word order sends waves of terror through the room. His impatience grows when we don’t comply fast enough. Snapping his fingers, he gestures to his men. A man with a scar cutting diagonally down his face approaches me with a crooked grin. He reaches out to touch me, but I’m quicker. I rip off my shirt and pants while keeping my eyes locked on his. Yes, I’m scared, but I refuse to give these disgusting excuses for men the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
