“Issy.Short for Isabelle,” says the blonde next to her.
“Anne,” says the last, her voice barely above a whisper.
Chiara speaks again.“They’ve been here longer.Days.Maybe a week.They were moved here from somewhere else.”
I get up on shaky legs and try to walk around to find out where we are being held.It’s a makeshift prison.There’s a dirty toilet stall behind a plastic curtain.Foul-smelling mattresses scattered on the floor, along with water bottles, a few wrappers from cheap protein bars, probably our “meals”.The girls tell us everything they know about our captors, which is not much.The men who guard us don’t speak.They come in only when necessary, fully masked and armed.A chill creeps down my spine.They don’t sound like amateurs.
Still, I note one thing—they are keeping us alive.That means we have value.Which means we might still have a shot.
Hours pass.My mind clears, and my limbs feel stronger.We whisper among ourselves, the others relieved I’ve woken up, eager for any new idea, any glimmer of hope.
“We need something, anything, we can use as a weapon,” I say, scanning the room again.But there’s nothing that even comes close.No sharp corners, no loose pipes.Just a barren cage.
I go to the toilet stall, pulling the curtain aside.There is a single cracked bowl.The lid on the tank is gone.I can see nothing useful at first glance.
Then I remember something.I’d once repaired a flush myself as a broke student with the help of a plumbing tutorial on the internet.I lean over the water tank and reach inside.My fingers graze metal.
Yes!
There is the rod I remember seeing, thin and long.I work the crumbly plastic screws, and with some effort, it comes free.I bring it back to the others like a trophy.
Issy takes it first, testing its strength.It bends.
“Try snapping it.”
We take turns, passing it between us, bending it back and forth until,crack, it splits in two jagged pieces.The ends are sharp.It’s a crude weapon, but effective.I rip a strip from the hem of my shirt, wrapping it around one piece of metal to create a makeshift handle.Issy does the same with the other piece.Now we have two pointy tools.
“These can injure, maybe even kill if we get close enough.”
The mood shifts.Hope, sharp and electric, begins to bloom in everyone’s eyes.
“We can’t take all of them,” Laura says.
“We won’t need to,” I reply.“We only need one of them to open the door.”
We hatch the plan quietly, every detail whispered with tense urgency.Two of us will hide behind the door.When they come in, we strike fast.The others will overwhelm if we have the chance.It’s a shitty plan, but it’s better than waiting to be sold or worse.
The rhythm of their schedule is predictable, so we agree to strike in the morning.That’s when they seem most relaxed and there are fewer voices, hinting at fewer men around.Tonight, we wait in silence, the parts of the broken rod hidden beneath the mattress.Our makeshift daggers are our only hope.
I lie awake, Chiara’s back pressed against mine for warmth.I don’t know where Damiano is, or if he even knows what has happened to me.But I believe he is looking.He has to be.And until he gets here, we survive.No matter what.
It’s morning when we take our positions, Laura and I pressed against the wall behind the door, metal rods gripped tight in our hands.Giulia lies sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness.Chiara slams her fists against the metal door, voice rising in panic.“She’s not waking up!Oh my God, I think she’s dead!”
Silence.
Then a voice from the other side, muffled and irritated, “Who?”
“My sister!My mother must have given her too much.She overdosed!”
There is a beat of silence, then we hear the click of a key turning in the lock and the door swings open.A man in a ski mask charges in, dropping to his knees beside Giulia, distracted by her limp form.
Now.
I leap forward, my weight slamming onto his back.I plunge the jagged metal rod into his neck.Warm blood spurts across my hand.He lets out a strangled gurgle, grabbing at the wound.I wrench the rod free and stab again.Nausea rises but I shove it down.I’m a vet, for God’s sake.I’ve seen blood.I can do this.
He crumples.
“Go!”I whisper-shout, breathless.
