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I am nothing.
I am nobody.
I am a ghost.
A commodity to be bought and traded.
I was sold for one million—that was my worth.
I look down at my naked, bruised body. There isn’t a patch of skin that hasn’t been colored. I doubt I’m worth as much now as I was when I was originally sold.
Who would want a pile of bones like me?
The boat rocks, and I heave. There is nothing in my stomach to come up, though. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I would just starve to death, but no matter how much I’ve tried, my body won’t give into the sweet release. My body has adapted and learned to survive on far less food and water than what it should be capable of.
I’ve tried finding weapons to end my life, but there are none to be found on this yacht.
I’ve searched, no man carries a gun—not even a knife.
I don’t understand the men who keep me.
Nothing about it makes sense. I don’t even know who is in charge. Who is my master? They all share in the torture. They all revel in the pleasure of watching me slowly disintegrate.
No.
I won’t break.
That’s the only thing keeping me sane for the last one thousand and ninety-five days.
The thrill at watching the men in frustration as I continue to hold on to who I am and what I’m capable of.
Their primary goal is breaking me.
I overheard them placing bets on how long it would take and who would deliver the final blow.
Three months…
Six months…
One year…
When I made it one year, they stopped betting. I think most of them thought I would never break at that point.
I won’t.
I can’t.
Staying strong doesn’t mean I’m safe; it means I’m foolish. Giving in to them would be easier.
They wouldn’t torture me as often.
They could give me a command, and I would obey.
I would resolve that this is my life, and the last drop of hope I’ve been holding onto would leave.
They could keep the door unlocked. Maybe even stop at a port and get off this godforsaken boat.
But I can’t break.
